Day 19, 5:20 AM

The thirty-eighth floor is dark already, but my darkness intuition is helping me navigate around trees and bushes without a sound. It’s a neat skill, lets you see in the dark, kind of. It’s more like letting you be aware of your surroundings. The range is miserable, around one foot, and it has even more quirks.

I tried it in full light after closing my eyes; it didn’t work. There’s a threshold in illumination when it kicks in, somewhere around cloudy twilight. Once the light is sufficiently dim, it works both when my eyes are open and when they are closed. I bet it’ll take some getting used to outside, where the surroundings aren’t quite as sterile as they are inside the dungeon. I can already imagine sensing creepy crawlies around me when I’m trying to fall asleep.

Maybe sleep with the lights on?

The thought amuses me, but it also tells me I should head out. I’ve failed to find my promised secret chambers, the Guide blessed me with two more attribute points, upping my emergency pool to three, and I really have no reason to find and kill the floor’s last monster.

I haven’t been here before, but I just know it’s an ambush predator. Everything else would’ve rushed towards me when I banged my club and staff together to attract monsters and get this floor done. The completionist part of me is crying foul, but Redo has refreshed hours ago, and if I’m not addicted, it’s time to leave with my sack-full-of-jewels.

I’m kind of surprised at my own willpower as I spin on my heel and head for the exit. I pass the horror mantis shrimp and rip off two of its boxing gloves to carry with me as a trophy. It would be nice if Edna could do something with the material, since even without magical enhancement it’s nearly as tough as my staff.

Can I trust her? It’s a tough question, but she trusted me enough to let me go explore the dungeon. I should at least return the favor. Give her the benefit of a doubt and all that.

The bush I’m passing is strange. Thanks to my improved perception, I can now tell the minor discrepancy between phasmids and bushes. At least on this floor. My battered staff whistles and smashes the critter into ichor and chitin, the action barely breaking my stride as the lights go out completely.

I get no rewards. Neither blue nor gold screens inform me of improvements. The only benefit to killing the bush-bug is the sense of satisfaction at something seen through to the end. It’s surprising how important getting rid of nagging feelings becomes at my age.

A part of me, a very reckless part, wants to continue down. It’s trying to mask itself as a bizarre curiosity about how the giant bugs will evolve further, which new species I will see, how many attribute points the dungeon has in store for me.

Yeah, that last one is why I have to leave. Right now.

Carefully climbing thirty-eight flights of stairs takes over two hours, and I consider taking a nap on the first floor just to be fresh for whatever might happen on the surface. I would’ve done it too, if I wasn’t afraid that the dungeon had somehow implanted the thought into my mind.

The pitter-patter of rain becomes audible the moment I step onto the stairs leading outside. I consider the patterns and memories of various bugs I’ve encountered. Their numbers grew with each floor, then sharply declined after ten floors. rising and ebbing, like a tide, but the insects themselves became deadlier.

The new species were more dangerous than the previous ones, which sprouted seemingly random evolutions, which weren’t all that random. Fast creatures became faster or more difficult to spot. Tough, strong ones grew tougher, stronger, or bigger. Is it natural evolution at play? Is it something engineered?

I leave the stone outhouse, the inquisitors take one look at me and lock their weirdly shaped poleaxes to block my path.

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“Halt!”

“How deeply did you delve?”

The question and the hostile stance snap me out of my thoughts. Fred mentioned the inquisitors take a tax upon leaving the dungeon, their fee for keeping the realm safe. I have forgotten about that.

My mind moves like lightning, constructing a believable lie. They’ll catch me red handed if I say something as dumb as twenty when I have resources from beyond the thirtieth floor. And as a matter of fact, I do have such resources. Not to mention the mantis shrimp’s boxing gloves.

“Thirty-eighth.” I tell the truth with almost no delay as I realize that they can confirm my words by wasting a couple of hours climbing down and seeing for themselves how many lights are out.

“You speak the truth,” one of them says, nodding and moving his weapon out of my face. “You are very talented to have cleared more than twenty floors all on your own. Why did you return before reaching the fortieth floor? You have cleared so many floors without injury, there was no reason to give up.”

A valid question. One I can’t answer truthfully with my suspicions about the Guide and the dungeon. Not to mention the “we” behind the Guide. Also, the way he knew I was speaking the truth implies he might have a skill for that, or that he wants me to think that.

“I’ve had enough. I want to go to Tallrock and see if I can find some gear that will make things easier for me.” That’s one hundred percent true. I might not plan to do so right away, but it’s definitely not a lie.

The inquisitor agrees. He nods his hooded head, which I can now see is just as bald as that of the priest I killed minutes within reincarnating in Everrain.

“The tax for the thirty-eighth floor is one hundred and ninety silver or equivalent goods,” the other inquisitor says scripted words in a bored, monotonous voice. “Would you prefer to pay in coins or goods?”

My options are limited since I don’t have a single coin. So I let them rummage through my sack with their grabby fingers. Initial Appraisal labels them mostly honest, their toll two silver coins off from the exact amount. I reckon they would’ve taken more had they wanted to steal.

“Interesting class change. Smart,” the more verbal of the two says in passing after they put the gems and ore nuggets into their sack. “Even smarter that you haven’t bothered with herbs. They take up much more space and are a bother to transport without damaging them. You should consider hiring a herbalist or a porter next time, possibly both. They make the trip much more profitable.”

“Thanks.” I see no reason to act hostile towards a friendly senior less than tenth of my age. “Do you see weapon masters often?”

“Can’t say I do.” The chatty one replies while his colleague shakes his head. “You were my first, in fact. Uncommon classes are rare. They often have powerful skills, but they are notoriously difficult to level, and it’s just as tough to find a master to teach you. Basically not worth it, see, you already got two levels from a single delve. Cave explorers are rare, but at least I’ve seen a few, and there are at least two still alive in Tallrock, if you’re interested in an apprenticeship.”

They really can see your class and level. Telling apart truth from lies seems much easier than seeing information about others’ class. But they can’t see my full stats. That probably means that the “we” the Guide mentioned aren’t connected with the inquisition.

“Do you have any more tips for me?”

“Well, I’ve got plenty, if you don’t mind sitting here in the rain with us.”

One is chatty, while the other hardly opened his mouth except to say what’s basically his job. The older one must be starved for company. I’m certain that’s not the full extent of it, my presence and charisma must have played at least a minor part in an inquisitor opening up and chatting with me.

Jarrol, the friendly inquisitor, has one son, who’s also working in the church, but apparently lacks devotion to make it into the ranks of inquisition. Jarrol is full of stories about dungeon delving, he and his party had ventured to the fiftieth floor before he joined the inquisition and became a dungeon guardian.

I politely listen to his endless chatter, quickly understanding why his partner keeps his mouth shut, his brooding face perpetually locked in a bored expression. Finally, the man speaks about Tallrock, his home castle. The church and the guards are keeping it safe, with regular delver groups going into the dungeon to prevent monster outbreaks.

That’s the first I hear of the expression. Apparently, like hedges, if you don’t trim the dungeon population frequently enough things turn messy. Old delver crews are still going strong, but the youngsters lack moderation. The brave ones often delve too deep and get themselves killed, while the cowards don’t leave the castle walls.

After lamenting the state of the youth and world in general, Jarrol finally shares some useful information, including best smithies, leatherworkers, and other assorted craftsmen a budding dungeon delver might need.

I barely extricate myself from the barnacle, wishing them both a peaceful and uneventful watch.