Chapter 37 " the unseen survivor"
"Hey, Tobin! Over here!"
A man with messy black-blue hair called out to the newcomer who had just entered the tavern. The man he addressed was tall and slender, his wavy hair framing a face marked by a gentle smile. Dressed in a formal suit, he carried himself with an air of professionalism, standing out among the more casually dressed patrons.
"It’s been a while since you’ve been here," the first man remarked, leaning back in his chair.
"Yeah, it has," Tobin replied with a sigh, settling into the seat across from him. "The wake for those adventurers from the Class S dungeon took up all my time. It was so sudden—we had to pull everything together overnight."
At those words, Caelan stopped eating. His grip on the spoon tightened slightly as he processed what had just been said.
It had been seven days since he returned to Liras City from the Shumidt Duchy, yet the news of the fallen adventurers still dominated conversations. And, of course, the emergence of the Class S dungeon.
Ever since its discovery, the dungeon has been the city’s hottest topic. Merchants in this very tavern whispered about how the news had spread beyond Liras, stirring interest across multiple kingdoms and empires. It wasn’t surprising. A Class S dungeon was rare, and its dungeon core was something every power on the continent coveted.
Since I can't show my face at the Willow Guild or in the west and northwest districts, I've been staying in the Northeast District. That’s why I’m here—in this quieter tavern. Unlike the rowdy taverns in the western and southern districts, this place caters to city officials, small-time merchants, clerks, and those in administrative jobs. Here, people drink in moderation, and their conversations revolve more around business and transactions than battlefield tales.
But no matter the district, taverns always have one thing in common—people love to gossip.
As I listened to the two men at the next table, I realized there wasn’t much new information—nothing I didn’t already know. Letting out a quiet sigh, I signaled the waitress and paid for my meal. Without looking back, I stepped out of the tavern and into the cool night air.
I made my way through the Northeast district, heading toward the house I was renting. The streets here were noticeably calmer than those in the west and south, with well-maintained roads that felt smooth beneath my boots. Modest, medium-sized houses lined the way, occasionally interrupted by larger homes—though none grand enough to rival the mansions of nobles or the wealthiest merchants in the East District.
This was the part of the city where stability reigned. It was home to those with steady jobs and reliable incomes—middle-class merchants who lived comfortably but couldn’t compete with the elite. Here, life moved at a steady pace, untouched by the chaos that often plagued adventurers.
And yet, even in this place of order, tragedy still found a way to creep in.
News of an S-Class dungeon spreads like wildfire, carried through whispers and murmurs. Every mention of fallen adventurers feels like a fresh blow, a weight pressing down on my chest. I want to scream, to break something, to release the frustration boiling inside me—but I restrain myself. I endure. Because what else can I do?
When word spread that every adventurer who had taken part in the mission in the Shumidt Duchy had perished, most saw it as just another tragedy—another tally in the long list of deaths. But when it was revealed that the dungeon in question was actually S-Class, the news exploded. Speculation ran rampant, rumors twisted the truth, and blame was hurled like stones in the dark.
At the center of the controversy stood the Willow Guild, accused of negligence. But I knew they were also victims of the duke’s deception. The Willow Guild had shown the public the quest documents from Duke Shumidt, complete with his official stamp, clearly stating that it was a Class E dungeon. From that, it was evident that the Shumidt Duchy had deliberately misrepresented the dungeon’s classification. And suddenly, everything became so much worse.
Despite this revelation, the city council launched an official investigation. But what kind of justice could anyone expect when those in power only cared about protecting their own? Unable—or more likely unwilling—to hold the duke accountable, they turned their scrutiny onto the Willow Guild instead. It was the perfect scapegoat. Under the guise of an “investigation,” they suspended its operations, but the damage was already done.
According to Lucan, Willow Guild employees had already started looking for other jobs. It was only a matter of time before the guild collapsed entirely. Clients, wary of the scandal, severed ties, and without work, adventurers had no reason to stay.
Meanwhile, the House of Shumidt shifted the blame onto the House of Lorno, claiming they had been misled by false information. The House of Lorno, of course, wasn’t about to take the fall either. They insisted their dungeon examiner had misread the markings and that a miscommunication between the two houses had led to the disaster.
A tragic mistake. An unfortunate accident.
That was how they framed it.
But I knew the truth.
It wasn’t just obvious—I had lived it. The House of Shumidt and the House of Lorno knew exactly what that dungeon was. They weren’t careless or misinformed. They lied. And because of that lie, every single adventurer who entered that dungeon never came back.
Except me.
I was the only one who survived.
I could still see their faces—the horror in their eyes, the agony contorting their features as that thing tore through them, one by one. My comrades, my friends, burned alive. The monster was too powerful. We never stood a chance.
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We were sent there to die.
My fists clenched, my body trembling with barely restrained fury. The nobles had played with our lives like we were nothing more than disposable pawns in a game we never agreed to. And when it was over—when the last of my comrades had fallen—they buried the truth beneath excuses and bureaucracy.
A tragic mistake. A miscommunication.
I almost wanted to laugh.
No. It was murder.
And I was living proof of their crime.
Yet no one was held accountable.
No justice.
The city council accepted their excuses without question. The deaths of countless adventurers were brushed aside with legal justifications and hollow words. But because the incident had drawn too much public attention, they needed a display of concern. A performance.
They arranged a grand wake for the fallen—an elaborate ceremony meant to pacify the people.
It made me sick.
To those in power, adventurers were nothing more than tools. We fought, we died, and our sacrifices were acknowledged only when it was politically convenient. The council might hold a wake for the fallen, but they wouldn’t even retrieve the bodies. They wouldn’t risk their own men to bring back the dead.
Their corpses were left to rot in that cursed place—forgotten and abandoned.
Instead, a nameless grave marker was erected, engraved with their names. A hollow gesture in place of bodies that would never return.
It was insulting.
Yet, instead of condemning Duke Shumidt or demanding justice, the tragedy became a publicity stunt—a staged display of sympathy to show they “cared.”
No sanctions.
No bans on his businesses.
No restrictions on his trade with Liras City.
Not even a fine.
No reparations for the families of the dead.
The duke didn’t even offer an apology.
I dug my nails into my palms.
It was infuriating.
The injustice toward adventurers wasn’t just about their deaths—it was about how little their lives were worth in the eyes of the powerful.
No recognition of the deception that led them to their deaths.
Because admitting the truth would mean jeopardizing political ties—not just for Duke Shumidt or the Kingdom of Limor, where he held power, but also for the entire noble class in this world. Including the nobles reside in Liras City, the merchants who relied on their favor, and the aristocrats who shaped policy—none of them would risk the balance of power for mere adventurers.
Mere adventurers.
That’s all we were to them—disposable pawns they could use to reduce casualties in their military forces for just a few coins.
And when we died?
We were discarded.
The nobility’s influence was absolute. Challenging them was unthinkable.
And then, another question arose.
What happened to the dungeon core?
An S-Class dungeon core was invaluable, yet there was no mention of it. Then, Duke Shumidt made a statement—one that only fueled more speculation.
He claimed that an adventurer had survived the massacre and fled with the core.
It was too convenient. Too absurd. How could anyone have survived such a dungeon? And even if someone had, would the duke have simply let him escape?
No one believed it.
Rumors spread that he was hiding the core to avoid handing it over to the royal family. But the duke—wealthier and more powerful than the monarchy itself—had little to fear from his own king.
No, if he was hiding something, it wasn’t from his kingdom.
It was from foreign powers.
When the city council heard the duke's claim, they immediately launched an investigation to determine if he was telling the truth. They weren’t concerned about whether he had lied about the dungeon’s classification; their focus was elsewhere.
They wanted the core.
According to Lucan, just as Duke Shumidt demanded access to the Willow Guild’s records of the adventurers involved, the city council did the same. I still don’t know how Lucan convinced Elle to erase my name from the list, but she did.
No one would know I was there.
No one would know I survived.
As I approached my house, I noticed a figure near the entrance. The dim light made it hard to see, but the unmistakable blue hair gave him away—it was Arthur.
"Arthur? It's late. What are you doing here?" I asked, stepping closer. That’s when I noticed the container in his hands.
"It's fine. We're in the Northeast District—it's safe," he replied casually. "Besides, my mom made beef with vegetables tonight. She cooked too much and told me to bring you some."
Warmth stirred in my chest at his thoughtfulness. "Thanks. Come inside."
I pushed the door open, revealing the mostly empty living room. A small wooden table with three chairs sat in the center—Arthur’s gift when I first moved in. He’d insisted I needed at least a place to sit and eat.
Arthur knew Jason, Niro, and Van had died in the Shumidt Duchy, but he didn’t know I had been there too. As far as he was aware, I had just been delayed by an escort job.
He set the container down and took a seat. "Caelan, the entrance exam deadline is in five days. You’re still planning to enroll, right?"
"Yeah, of course," I said without hesitation.
His face lit up. "Great! Sarah and I are going too. We can go together."
I hesitated, then sighed. "Arthur… sorry if I made you worry."
His expression shifted, unreadable for a moment. Then, in a quiet voice, he said, "I get it, Caelan. Your friends died. It's only natural to grieve."
A lump formed in my throat, but I stayed silent.
"But," he continued, more firmly, "the exam is in five days. We need to take it—this is our last chance before summer ends."
I nodded. "Yeah. I know."
Unlike my former world, where entrance exams were a one-day event, here they stretched across two seasons—spring and summer. Travel was slow, and academies gave students time to arrive from across the continent. But once summer ended, no new students would be accepted. Anyone who missed the deadline had to wait a full year.
And I wasn’t planning on waiting.