Max
After the heavy revelations and the exchange of secrets, the atmosphere in Freya's chambers shifted into something almost whimsical. For the next hour, Max indulged the goddess's wish. He took to the air within the high ceilings of her sanctum, her arms wrapped around his neck, his arms supporting her legs as he carried her. They didn't go outside—too risky—but gliding through the golden light of the room, letting her feel weightlessness for the first time in many years, earned him a look of pure, unadulterated joy that he suspected was rarer than any item in the dungeon.
Eventually, hunger—the mortal kind—caught up to them.
Freya dismissed him for dinner, her eyes lingering on his wings until they folded away, promising she would call for him later. Max, feeling lighter than he had in days, made his way down to the dining hall.
-◈ -
The hall was a cavernous space dominated by long wooden tables groaning under the weight of roasted meats, seasonal vegetables, and endless flagons of ale. The noise was deafening—the roar of hundreds of people blowing off steam.
As Max entered quietly, the volume dropped noticeably.
He found a spot near the middle, intending to keep a low profile. It didn't work. Within seconds, he was surrounded.
"Newbie! You actually survived a beastified punch?"
"What magic was that black sphere? Even Hedin looked spooked."
"Hey, fight me next! I bet I can take you!"
Max smiled politely, answering vague questions while dodging the specifics. He felt like a celebrity at a convention, except the fans here could bench press trucks. The curiosity was suffocating; everyone wanted to know his stats, his magic slots, the secret to fighting the Warlord.
"Okay, okay! Back off, you vultures! Can't you see you're making him choke on his stew?"
A small, fiercely energetic figure barged through the wall of muscle. He was a Pallum—barely coming up to Max's chest—but he shoved a Level 2 human aside with surprising strength.
Van.
Max recognized him immediately from the anime—the Second-Class adventurer who usually acted as the frontline commander for the lower levels.
"Give the guy some space!" Van barked, planting himself on the bench next to Max. "He just got here today. Let him eat before you interrogate him."
The crowd grumbled but dispersed slightly, giving Max enough breathing room to actually lift his spoon.
"Thanks," Max said, genuinely grateful. "They're... enthusiastic."
"They're battle junkies," Van corrected with a grin, skewering a piece of meat. "I'm Van. Van Altheim. Level 3. Nice to meet you, Max. That was a hell of a show you put on earlier."
"Max. Maximus Stilbon. Level 2," he replied, the lie tasting funny on his tongue considering his actual level. "And thanks. I just tried not to die."
"Hah! Humble. I like that," Van laughed, slapping Max on the back hard enough to rattle his teeth. "So, where you from? You don't fight like an Orario native."
For the rest of the meal, Max found himself enjoying the company. He spun the tale of his "scholar" background and his travels, carefully editing out the dimension-hopping and devil parts. Van listened with wide-eyed interest, trading stories of his own deep dungeon dives and the chaotic dynamics of the familia. It was grounding, reminding Max that for all the politics, this was also just a group of people trying to get stronger together.
As the meal wound down, a towering shadow fell over the table.
The chatter died instantly. Max looked up to see Ottar standing there, his expression as unreadable as stone.
"Max," the Warlord rumbled. "Come."
Van gave Max a sympathetic wince. "Good luck, newbie. Don't keep the boss waiting."
Max stood, wiped his mouth, and followed the Boaz out of the hall.
They didn't head toward the quarters where Van and the others slept. Instead, Ottar led him toward the central spiral staircase. They climbed past the first floor, past the second floor, ascending higher into the tower.
Wait, Max thought, counting the landings. Isn't this the executive territory.
Folkvangr was built like a fortress-castle. The ground floors housed the masses—Level 1s and 2s packed into dorms. The middle tiers were for the veteran Level 3s and 4s. But the upper echelons? That was reserved for the elite.
They reached the third floor—the level just below Freya's private sanctum. The hallway here was carpeted in plush red velvet, the sconces glowing with high-quality magic stones rather than torches.
"The First Class adventurers and executives reside here," Ottar explained briefly, his voice echoing in the quiet corridor. "Hedin, Hogni, the Gulliver Brothers, Allen."
He gestured to a set of doors as they passed. "Heith and Horn also reside on this floor due to their direct service to the Goddess."
And now, apparently, me.
Max realized the implication immediately. By placing him here, Freya wasn't just being hospitable; she was making a statement. She was marking him as an equal to her strongest children, bypassing the hierarchy completely. Allen is going to love this, Max thought sarcastically.
They reached the end of the corridor. Ottar pushed open a set of heavy mahogany double doors.
"Your quarters."
Max stepped inside and stopped dead.
"Whoa."
If his previous room in River Village was a Motel 6, this was the Burj Al Arab. The room was cavernous, easily three times the size of a standard apartment back in his old world. Floor-to-ceiling windows on the far wall offered a panoramic view of Orario's nightscape, the city lights twinkling below like a field of stars.
A massive four-poster bed dominated the center, draped in silks that probably cost more than a beginner adventurer's entire gear set. A crystal chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling. To the left, a private sitting area with plush leather armchairs and a fireplace; to the right, a lavish magical clock and a door leading to what looked like a private bathhouse-style bathroom lined with marble.
I expected a bunk bed, Max thought, eyeing the mini-bar in the corner. This is a presidential suite.
Ottar stood by the door, unmoved by Max's awe. To the Warlord, this luxury was simply the standard for those Freya favored.
"A few rules," Ottar said, pulling Max's attention back. "What happens on this floor stays on this floor. You are not to discuss the Goddess's private affairs with the lower members. Nor are you to do anything that would besmirch her name."
Max nodded, turning to face him. "Understood."
"Furthermore," Ottar continued, crossing his massive arms. "While your performance today was adequate, you are untrained in our ways. Before you are permitted to dive into the Dungeon, you must undergo the Baptism."
Max suppressed a grimace. He knew about the Baptism from the anime—a brutal rite of passage where all recruits were essentially beaten into shape by everyone.
"It is mandatory for all new members," Ottar said, his eyes boring into Max. "It lasts one week. It breaks the weak and tempers the strong. Heith will come for you tomorrow morning to explain the details and brief you on the Familia's operations."
Ottar turned to leave, his hand reaching for the doorknob. Then, he paused.
For a long moment, the Warlord stood with his back to the room. The silence stretched, heavy and thoughtful. When he turned back, his expression had shifted. The stoic mask of the Captain slipped just a fraction, revealing the warrior beneath—the man who had stood at the pinnacle of strength for years, waiting for a challenge.
"You have potential, Max," Ottar said, his voice dropping an octave, rumbling like subterranean earth. "Do not waste it."
Max straightened, meeting the Boaz's gaze.
"Lady Freya has very high expectations of you," Ottar continued, his rusty eyes gleaming with a strange intensity. "And so do I."
He let go of the door handle, facing Max fully.
"You fought well today. But we both know I held back. If you want a real spar—a battle where I do not hold my strength in check—then catch up." A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched his lips. "Reach Level 6. Become a warrior who can stand beside me, not just behind me. I will be waiting."
With that, the Warlord of Orario turned and left, closing the door with a definitive click.
Max stood alone in the middle of his opulent room, the silence ringing in his ears. His heart pounded—not from fear, but from pure, electrifying excitement.
The Warlord hadn't just acknowledged him. He issued a challenge.
Max turned to the window, looking out at the tower of Babel piercing the night sky. A grin spread across his face, sharp and determined.
"Challenge accepted."
His path was clear. Survive the Baptism. Dive into the Dungeon. Power level like a maniac.
Time to get to work.
-◈ -
As he stood there, his mind racing with combat scenarios and potential strategies, he felt a soft, cool pressure against his leg. Max looked down to see Kairu nuzzling against his shin, the slime's surface rippling with affection.
He smiled, the tension in his shoulders draining away. He reached down and scooped the little guy up.
"All recovered, buddy?" Max asked gently.
Kairu bounced in his palms, a vibrant, energetic Ki! resonating with pure joy.
"Glad to hear it. How's the familia treating you? No one tried to use you as a stress ball?"
Kairu jiggled in a way that suggested utmost luxury, as if he was chilling the whole day.
Max moved toward the heavy mahogany door, pushing it shut with a satisfying thud. As the latch clicked, the ambient noise of the corridor—the distant footsteps, the faint hum of the magical lamps—vanished instantly.
The silence was absolute. It felt heavy, thick, almost like the air inside a recording booth.
Does this room have sound dampeners? Max thought, intrigued. Considering who owns the building, privacy would be a premium.
He set Kairu down on the plush carpet. "Sit tight for a second. Science time."
Max walked to the center of the room. He took a breath, gathered a minuscule amount of demonic power in his throat, and let out a sharp, focused shout.
"TEST!"
The sound didn't echo. It didn't reverberate. It hit the walls and died instantly, absorbed by the enchanted masonry.
Nice.
Curiosity piqued, Max approached the wall. It looked like polished marble, but when he placed a hand on it, it felt denser. He drew back a fist and, controlling his strength to Level 1 limits, delivered a solid punch.
THUD.
His knuckles stung. The wall didn't even vibrate.
Reinforced, he noted, rubbing his hand. Probably adamantine-laced or magically treated stone. Makes sense—if a Level 5 executive throws a tantrum, you don't want the building coming down.
He then flared his aura, pushing a wave of raw magic outward. Instead of filling the room with oppressive pressure, the walls seemed to drink it in, dampening the output significantly.
Soundproofing, physical reinforcement, and magic suppression, Max tallied, a grin spreading across his face. It allows for experimentation without alerting the neighbors, but prevents devastating accidents. It's the perfect training dojo disguised as a hotel suite. Very, very convenient.
Satisfied that his privacy was absolute, Max turned his attention to domestic matters. He located his storage bag on a side table; inside, his stash of magic stones was untouched. He opened the massive wardrobe to find his tattered dungeon clothes cleaned, in addition to that were neatly hung garments.
They were all identical to what he was wearing now—high-quality silk shirts and trousers in varying shades of violet and white with the familia emblem.
"She really is branding me, isn't she?" Max mused, fingering the expensive fabric. He changed into a looser, night-wear version of the outfit, feeling the silk cool against his skin.
He dove onto the massive bed, the mattress absorbing him like a cloud. Kairu immediately hopped up, bouncing across the duvet to snuggle close to his side.
For the next hour, the silence of the room was filled with Max's voice as he talked to the slime. He recounted the duel to Kairu, breaking down Ottar's movements, the terrifying density of his defensive mana, and the way the Beastification warped the air around him. He spoke of his plans—the spells he wanted to invent, the skills he wanted to unlock. Kairu listened, pulsing softly in agreement, the perfect sounding board for a devil with too many ideas.
Before long, exhaustion finally claimed him, and Max drifted into a dreamless sleep.
The next morning, Max woke with the sun streaming through the enchanted glass windows. He stretched, feeling his joints pop, his mind already racing before his feet hit the floor.
While his body went through the motions of washing up, his brain was recapping his observations.
The gap, he analyzed, splashing cold water on his face. It's not just raw numbers. It's efficiency. Ottar didn't waste a single movement. Every step had purpose.
He dried his face, looking at his reflection.
Incantations matter.
That was the biggest takeaway. His Ars Magna allowed for chantless magic, yes, but when he used the incantation for Final Testament, the density and stability of the PoD increased significantly. Words were focus points; they aligned the mind and the mana. He needed to experiment with short-chants versus full arias to find the sweet spot between speed and power.
And sustainability.
He had lasted a few minutes against Ottar before his stamina bottomed out. If he had possessed healing magic—something efficient and rapid—he could have fought longer. He could have pushed his body past its breaking point and knit it back together in real-time.
I need books, Max decided, pacing the room. Heith is a healer. She must have texts on curative magic theory. I need to understand the principles of this world's healing so I can replicate it with my imagination.
And then there was the Grimoire.
His Ars Magna was powerful, but it relied on his imagination. A Grimoire—a special item that forced a Magic slot open—could grant him something entirely outside his current understanding. Or, more practically, he could use it to confirm his theories on magic systems.
But the price... Max grimaced, recalling the lore. Reliable ones are easily 100 Million Valis.
He paused by the window, looking out over the waking city.
He could ask Freya. One word, and she would likely drop a library on his head along with a mountain of gold. She was the kind of sugar mommy who wouldn't blink at the cost.
"No," Max said aloud, crossing his arms.
His Devil Pride—and his own male ego—recoiled at the thought. He wasn't a pet to be kept. If he wanted power, he would buy it himself. He would earn every coin.
"Money," he muttered, turning to the bed where Kairu was waking up. "We need money, buddy. Lots of it."
Kairu stretched—or rather, expanded slightly—and chirped a sleepy greeting.
"Do you have any stones left in your storage?" Max asked.
Kairu bounced, Ki, Ki!, and began to spit out stones.
One by one, they clattered onto the silk sheets. Small ones from goblins, slightly larger ones from kobolds. Then there are many drop items as well, goblin fang and Kobold Nail.
Max counted them quickly. "373."
He grabbed his storage bag and emptied his own collection. "And 612 here."
"Total... 985 drops," Max calculated, staring at the pile. "Floor 1 drops are dirt cheap. Even if I get an average of 100 Valis per drop... that's roughly 98,500 Valis. Let's round to 100k."
Max stared at the pile. 100k Valis. He needed 100 Million. The number was so absurd he almost laughed. Almost.
He was 0.1% of the way there. At this rate, he'd be farming goblins until he died of old age.
I need to go deeper, he thought. Middle Floors. Lower Floors. The drops there are worth exponentially more. But walking down to the 18th or 24th floor every day is a waste of time and stamina.
He tapped his chin, staring at the ceiling.
Teleportation.
Suddenly, he felt it. A faint, thrumming connection in the back of his mind.
He closed his eyes and focused. It was distant, buried under tons of rock and magic interference, but it was unmistakable.
The teleportation circle he had placed at the transition between Floor 1 and 2.
It's still there?
Max's eyes snapped open in surprise. It had been over a day. He assumed the Dungeon would have chewed it up and spat it out by now, but the anchor at the floor boundary was holding strong.
A grin—wicked and full of scheming intent—spread across his face.
If an anchor lasted this long at a boundary... he didn't need to walk.
And more importantly...
"The Dungeon is full of adventurers," Max whispered, the plan forming in his mind like a puzzle clicking together. "High-level adventurers. People who go deep."
He couldn't just place anchors on the floor where they might decay or be found. But what if he placed an anchor on an object? A coin? A piece of gear?
If he slipped a marked item onto a high-level party heading for the Deep Floors... he could let them do the walking. They clear the path, they handle the travel time. And when they reach a safe zone or a resource rich floor?
Teleport.
He could "commute" instantly to the high-value floors, farm for a few hours, and teleport back to his luxurious room in Folkvangr for dinner.
"Uber for adventurers," Max chuckled, grabbing Kairu and lifting him high. "But I'm the passenger, and they don't even know they're driving me."
It was ludicrous. It was lazy. It was absolute genius.
"Kairu," Max said, his eyes shining with the promise of wealth. "Get ready. We're going to be rich."
His smart and wonderful mind came up with an even easier, more philanthropic—and profitable—solution.
"Teleporting people from danger to safety," Max muttered, eyes widening as the business model crystallized. "It's the ultimate insurance policy. 'Max's Evac Service.' I could charge 1000 Valis per head for the upper floors. Double it for the middle floors. Triple for the deep as a start."
He paced the room, excitement bubbling. "If I save even one life, that's good enough for my conscience. And if I save a high-level party from a wipe? I could ask for a percentage of their loot."
Then, the tactical side of his brain kicked in, dousing the capitalist fire with a bucket of cold reality.
"But if I leave my magic circles scattered around like bus stops, they become liabilities," he reasoned, stopping in front of the mirror. "A smart enemy could analyze the circle, jam it, or worse, try it to reverse-summon something nasty right into my bedroom."
He looked down at the slime bouncing by his feet. "I can't use my standard magic circle. It needs encryption. A biometric lock, or maybe a disposable one-time-use anchor. Guess I have to create a new circle, huh, buddy?"
Kairu bounced, a solid thud-squish sound of acknowledgement.
"Alright. Decision temporarily finalized: get rich, but do it securely."
Max checked the time on the expensive-looking clock on the wall. Morning was burning.
"I'm hitting the showers. You," he pointed at Kairu, "have homework. Try splitting yourself into smaller parts. See if you can gain control of them independently. Imagine having little scout drones, or decoys. Give it a shot."
Kairu wobbled, processing the command, then immediately began vibrating as he attempted to pinch a piece of his own gelatinous mass off.
Max grinned and headed for the bathroom.
Twenty minutes later, fresh, clean, and smelling faintly of lavender-scented soap that likely cost more than his old life's monthly rent, Max stepped out of his room. He wore the day version of the violet clothes provided—sturdy but elegant, allowing for movement.
He left Kairu behind to focus on his mitosis training and instead of waiting for Heith to come and get him, he decided to meet her.
Max made his way down the plush corridor toward the stairs. As he rounded the corner, a door opened, and Heith stepped out. She looked immaculate as always, her healer's robes pristine, though her eyes held a hint of morning grogginess.
"Hello, Heith. Good morning," Max greeted cheerfully.
Snap.
Heith spun on her heel, her staff appearing in her hand with blurring speed. She leveled the tip directly at Max's nose, her expression shifting instantly into combat readiness.
"Whoa!" Max reflexively threw his hands up, freezing mid-step. "Friendly! I'm a friendly!"
Heith blinked, her eyes focusing. She lowered the staff slowly, the tension draining from her shoulders as she realized who was standing there.
"Ah... Maximus," she let out a breath, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Apologies. Being greeted first thing in the morning is... new to me. Usually, the morning starts with shouting or the sound of breaking furniture."
Max chuckled nervously, lowering his hands. "I understand. Folkvangr seems intense. I'll try not to startle you in the future."
"That would be appreciated," she said with a small, apologetic smile.
They fell into step together, heading toward the spiral staircase that led down to the dining floor.
"By the way," Heith asked, glancing at his empty shoulder. "Do you have your familiar with you? Lady Freya mentioned the slime."
Max shook his head. "No. I told him to stay in the room and train. I don't want to draw more attention to myself than I already have. Yesterday was enough spotlight for one week."
Heith nodded understandingly. "Wise. The lower members are still buzzing about the duel. If they saw a slime with you, they might never let you eat in peace."
Seizing the opportunity, Max pivoted to his main objective.
"So, I have a few questions about magic," he began, keeping his tone casual.
Heith glanced at him. "Go on."
"Do we have a library? Specifically, somewhere I can get books on magical theory, spell structures, healing... that sort of thing."
She raised an eyebrow, giving him a quizzical look. "Aren't you a mage? Weren't you trained before coming here? Your display against Ottar suggested a high level of proficiency."
Max resisted the urge to wince. Right. Cover story maintenance.
"Oh, yes, I was trained," he said, adopting an awkward, slightly embarrassed tone. "But my family's magic is... unorthodox. It relies heavily on my bloodline and bypasses many 'normal' steps found in standard spellcasting. I want to understand the fundamentals of this city's magic to round out my education."
It was a flimsy excuse to anyone who dug deep, but it fit the "foreign noble" persona Freya acknowledged.
Heith seemed to accept it. "I see. That makes sense. Instinctive magic often lacks theoretical foundation."
She gestured vaguely upward as they descended. "We do have a library. It is on the 2nd floor—accessible to anyone. It houses vast amounts of knowledge, from detailed Dungeon maps and bestiaries to treatises on Skill development and magical fundamentals."
Max mentally fist-pumped. Jackpot.
"That's perfect. Thank you."
"Oh, and before I forget," Heith added, as if remembering a minor detail. "Since you are classified as a Mage, and given your performance, you are qualified for a Grimoire from the Familia's treasury."
Max nearly tripped on the stairs.
"A Grimoire?" he repeated, trying to keep his voice steady.
"Yes. Once you are finished with your week of Baptism, speak to Ottar. He will arrange for you to receive one."
Max's mind reeled.
A free Grimoire.
Grimoires were astronomically expensive. And Freya was just handing him one?
Then his logical side kicked in, cold and calculating.
Wait. Ottar and Freya know exactly what I am.
They knew he wasn't a normal mage. They knew his "magic" was actually imagination based. Giving him a Grimoire wasn't just generosity; it was a strategic investment. They knew that if he forced open a magic slot with a Grimoire, his Ars Magna might allow him to assimilate whatever spell was inside and twist it into something monstrous. Or perhaps the Grimoire would grant him a spell that filled the gaps his Power of Destruction couldn't cover.
They are deliberately feeding me power, Max realized. They want to see what a Devil does with the ultimate mage tool.
The idea was sound. Since he had abnormally high magic growth potential—maybe to SS or SSS given his race—a Grimoire was the most efficient way to capitalize on it.
Should I take it?
Objectively, yes. Saving 100 million Valis would take months—maybe years—of grinding. But accepting handouts from Freya, letting her pamper him like a kept pet...
His Devil Pride recoiled.
I'll decide when Ottar actually offers it, Max thought, shelving the issue. After the Baptism. After I prove I can earn my place here without charity.
Heith, ignorant of his internal tactical meeting, continued her explanation as they reached the landing of the dining floor.
"Once you are done with your Baptism," she said, her tone shifting to administrative efficiency, "one of the executives will take you to the Guild to finish your official registration. You cannot dive as a Freya Familia member until the paperwork is filed."
"Right. The paperwork."
"After that, you can begin your dungeon exploration. They will also explain to you how the exchange of monster stones works within the Familia—we have a specific quota and exchange rate—and advise you on how deep you are permitted to go based on your assessment."
She looked at him pointedly. "Save your logistical questions until then. Focus on surviving the Baptism first."
"Understood," Max said with a nod. "Thanks, Heith."
"You're welcome. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to prepare the infirmary. I have a feeling I'll be seeing a lot of you and the other recruits this week."
With a wave, Heith turned and headed toward the medical wing. Max watched her go, then turned toward the cacophony of the dining hall.
He spotted Van waving a spoon from a table near the center.
"Time to fuel up," Max muttered, heading into the fray. "I have a feeling I'm going to need the calories."
-◈ -
After a tasty and filling breakfast that seemed designed to sit heavy in the stomach like a brick of lead, the atmosphere shifted. The clatter of cutlery was replaced by the scraping of chairs and the heavy thud of boots as everyone in the hall began making their way towards the training grounds.
Exercises and warm-ups were conducted with military precision. Stretching, light jogging, basic forms—it was deceptive. It looked like a standard gym class, right up until the clock chimed 10 AM.
Then, the air changed.
"Baptism," Hedin's voice cut through the grounds from the boundary line, sharp and indifferent. "Begin."
It wasn't a start signal; it was the dropping of a bloody handkerchief in a shark tank.
Everyone jumped into the arena. There were no brackets, no referees, and no rules. It was a mosh pit of violence where everyone tried their absolute best to kill each other.
Only Hedin and the white-robed medical team stood by the boundary, watching like vulture-keepers waiting for scraps. Hedin's gaze, sharp behind his glasses, was mostly focused on Max.
Max didn't have to wait long. The same crowd that had been sitting near him at breakfast—the ones eager for stories—dragged him from the edge into the center of the melee. Their friendliness evaporated, replaced by the manic glint of battle junkies looking to test the "Madman."
They attacked mercilessly and wildly. A spear thrust from the left, a battleaxe swing from the right, a flurry of fists from the front.
Max reacted on instinct. He sidestepped the spear and threw a check hook at the attacker.
CRACK.
The adventurer—a Level 2 human—went spinning through the air like a top before crashing face-first into the dirt.
Max stared at his fist, blinking. Whoa. Calibration issue?
Since getting his Falna the day prior, his stats were technically I-0, but the divine blessing acted like a multiplier on his already superhuman Devil physiology. He hadn't adjusted yet. Movements that used to require effort were now effortless; strikes that were meant to stun were now sending people into orbit.
He bulldozed through the initial wave. He decided to strictly ban the Power of Destruction from this exercise—one slip-up and he'd accidentally erase someone's head instead of bruising it. Instead, he stuck to honing his fundamentals: Hakuda style hand-to-hand, basic swordsmanship with a borrowed training blade, and the occasional low-level Bakudō spell for crowd control.
"Oi! Fresh meat!"
A gruff voice rumbled from his flank, sounding like stones grinding together in a mixer. "Ye seem to have gotten stronger since yesterday, laddie. Looks like the Boss Warlord didn't break ye after all, eh?"
Max turned just in time to see a compact tank of a man launching himself into the air.
He was a Dwarf. Older, his beard braided with heavy iron rings that clinked with his movement, his muscles looking like carved granite under scarred skin. He didn't just look strong; he looked dense, as if gravity pulled on him harder than anyone else. He descended like a meteor, a massive warhammer raised high in a grip that promised ruin.
Max crossed his arms to block, reinforcing them with magic.
BOOM.
The impact drove Max's feet six inches into the packed earth. His arms screamed in protest, his bones rattling all the way to his teeth.
"Name's Trent. Trent Gillthunder," the Dwarf introduced himself mid-swing, grinning through a mouth of missing teeth as he pivoted the hammer for a follow-up strike to Max's ribs. "And I'm here to see if yer actually worth the air ye breathe, or if ye just got lucky against the Boss!"
Max ducked, the wind of the weapon ruffling his hair. Level 3, his instincts screamed. High Level 3. But it wasn't just the stats; the sheer aura rolling off the Dwarf was suffocating. It was heavy with decades of dungeon grime, the smell of dried blood, and the confidence of a man who had killed monsters bigger than houses.
"Pleasure," Max grunted, snapping a kick at Trent's knee.
Trent didn't even dodge. He took the kick, grunted as if stung by a bee, and used Max's momentary lack of balance to headbutt him square in the nose.
Crunch.
"Too slow, pup! Ye think yer fancy magic makes ye a warrior?" Trent roared, kicking Max away. "In this Familia, we earn our keep with sweat and steel, not just flashy lights!"
It was the start of a very long day.
Trent had apparently decided he was Max's personal nightmare. It wasn't random bullying; it was a targeted audit. Trent had seen the rumors, seen the newbie skip the line to the executive floor, and decided he was going to be the one to stress-test the structural integrity of this new "Golden Boy." He was going to find the breaking point.
And so began Max's day of Baptism.
No rest. From 10 AM to 6 PM—basically as long as the sun was up—it was a cycle of violence. Fight. Get crushed. Get dragged to the sideline. Heith or her subordinates would slap a healing potion on him or cast a spell. The moment the bones were healed, Trent was there, grabbing him by the collar and shoving him back into the pit.
"Get up! Is that all the 'Madman' has got?"
By the end of the day, Trent had defeated Max more than a dozen times.
Hammer to the chest. Loss.
Sweep and shield bash. Loss.
Sheer grappling contest. Loss.
But instead of moving on to a fresh victim, Trent persisted. He kept coming back to Max, ignoring the easier fights. At first, it seemed like sadism, but by the tenth beatdown, the dynamic shifted.
Trent slammed Max into the dirt one more time, pinning him with the haft of the hammer. Max wheezed, expecting another insult about his lack of beard or spine.
Instead, the Dwarf's expression went dead serious. The thick accent vanished, replaced by the crisp, authoritative tone of a master instructor.
"Stop telegraphing your right," Trent barked, staring down at him. "You drop your shoulder every time you load up a spell. Any Level 2 worth their salt will see it coming and gut you before you finish the cast. Keep your posture rigid until the moment of release."
Max, spitting blood, blinked in surprise at the sudden shift. He nodded weakly. "Got it."
"Good." Trent stepped back, the manic grin returning instantly. "Now get up, ye soft-bellied milk-drinker! We ain't done yet!"
Trent liked that. He liked Max's persistence. He liked the determination that kept the boy standing up when his legs were jelly. But mostly, he liked that Max didn't make excuses. Even while getting thrashed, the rookie listened to every word the older dwarf said with rapt attention, adjusting his stance in real-time.
By the time the sun dipped below the walls of Folkvangr, Max was a walking bruise, but his guard was tighter, his telegraphing minimized.
"Alright, fresh meat! Food time!" Trent announced, slapping Max on his sore shoulder hard enough to make him stumble.
Max winced, clutching his arm, but followed the stream of exhausted, limping adventurers trudging toward the main keep. They looked less like the elite of Orario and more like the survivors of a natural disaster.
However, as they reached the grand entrance of the manor, they didn't head straight for the showers.
A line of white-robed figures stood waiting in the vestibule like a divine pit crew. Heith and her medical corps were stationed in two rows, staffs glowing with soft emerald light, ready to service the damaged goods.
It was an assembly line of healing.
As Max stepped into the queue, a healer—a young elf woman he didn't recognize—tapped his forehead with her staff without a word.
"Dia."
A wash of cool, minty energy flooded his system. It felt like being doused in ice water on a humid day. The throbbing in his ribs vanished instantly. The swelling in his jaw receded. The myriad cuts and abrasions stitched themselves shut in seconds, leaving behind only phantom aches and the sweat of exertion. Around him, the groans of his fellow recruits turned into sighs of relief as broken fingers snapped back into place and concussions cleared like fog.
It was efficient, impersonal, and undeniably effective. In Freya Familia, you weren't allowed to stay broken; you were fixed so you could be broken again tomorrow.
Cleaned of injuries but still caked in grime, the group dispersed to the bathhouse to wash away the day's filth. Thirty minutes later, scrubbing the dust from his hair and feeling human again, Max emerged, dressed in fresh clothes.
He barely made it two steps before Trent materialized.
The Dwarf didn't let Max wander off to sit alone. He grabbed him by the forearm with a grip like a vice and dragged him to a sturdy oak table dominated by his 'buddies'—a rough-looking crew of Dwarves and Prums who looked like they chewed rocks for snacks and washed it down with gasoline.
"Oi, lads! Shift yer arses," Trent bellowed, shoving a fellow dwarf aside to make room. "This is the fresh meat. Took a hammer to the ribs twelve times and didn't cry for his mum."
He pushed Max onto the bench.
"Sit. Eat," Trent commanded, pointing a calloused finger at the food. "Ye look like a twig. Can't fight if ye got no meat on yer bones."
The older men gave nods of acknowledgement—brief, stoic, professional—before returning to their meals. There were no questions about his magic, no awe about the duel. Just the silent, begrudging acceptance of warriors recognizing someone who took a beating without complaining.
However, as Max looked around the hall, the warmth of the previous night had vanished.
At the surrounding tables, the atmosphere had chilled. The "New Toy" novelty had worn off. Now, as he met the gazes of other members, he saw it—jealousy. Scorn.
Why does he get to stay on the executive floor?
Why did he get a duel?
Why is the Goddess favoring him?
He could feel the resentment radiating off the Level 1s and 2s who were stuck in the normal quarters. They didn't see the lesson Trent was teaching; they just saw their goddess' new favorite getting private tutoring.
Max realized with cold clarity that the Baptism tomorrow was going to be even more brutal. Today, Trent had been testing him. Tomorrow, the rest of them would be venting their frustrations.
Fine, Max thought, tearing into a loaf of bread. Bring it on. Free XP.
He ate to his heart's content, piling his plate high with roasted meats and heavy breads. The meal was a noisy, chaotic affair similar to the morning, filled with the clatter of tankards and the rough laughter of warriors unwinding after violence.
Finally, satiated and sore despite the magical healing, he finished the meal with a polite nod to Trent.
"Thanks for the lessons, Trent. Seriously."
The Dwarf wiped foam from his mustache and fixed Max with a beady eye. "Don't thank me yet, kid. Ye survived the hammer because I was feeling generous."
He grinned, showing a gold tooth that glinted in the magic light. "Tomorrow? Tomorrow, I bring the axe."
With that ominous promise hanging in the air, the group dispersed. Most of the exhausted recruits shambled off toward their quarters, dreaming of sleep and soft mattresses.
Max retreated up the stairs, leaving the noise of the mess hall behind. His body screamed for rest. His muscles felt like lead, and the luxurious four-poster bed in his executive suite was calling his name with the allure of a siren.
But as he reached the landing of the second floor, Max didn't continue upward to the third.
He stopped.
Sleep? Max thought, leaning against the cold stone wall to catch his breath. No. Sleep is for people who aren't trying to catch up to a Level 6 Warlord.
Heith's words from the morning echoed in his mind. We do have a library. It is on the 2nd floor... vast amounts of knowledge... magical fundamentals.
He needed an edge. His passive healing is not enough as that requires him to stay put, if he is in combat, he can't even feel that working. So he needed a healing spell that is close to the Yin seal or Ichigo's in these endurance matches, and he needed to understand the theory behind it so his Ars Magna could hopefully replicate it.
Pushing off the wall, Max turned away from the stairs leading to his comfortable bed. He adjusted his collar, suppressed a yawn that threatened to crack his jaw, and walked down the quiet corridor of the second floor.
Max pushed open the heavy doors at the end of the hall. The smell of old parchment and ink washed over him, more invigorating than any smelling salt.
He stepped into the library. For him, the night was just beginning.
--> Devil in a Dungeon <--
AN:
This is the longest chapter of the story so far at 6.5k words! That's what initially planned for 2 chaps lol. I felt cutting this would be abrupt and unnecessary. Other than that, nothing much to say as the coming few chaps will be focusing on Baptism as Max will be learning quite a bit from all the fights and of course experimenting with his magic.
Though I'm on the fence on what would Max get from the Grimoire if he accepts. As he feels he already has enough Hax. Do share your thoughts on how the dilemma could be dealt with in a review/comment.
If you want to read at least 4 chaps ahead or support me, visit p.a.t.r.e.o.n.c.o.m/b3smash.
Please note that they are early access only, they will be eventually released here as well.
Next update will be on Tuesday.
Ben, Out.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.