The Ghost Theory:
The Almiraj blood hit the stone near the cascade with a wet slap. Dark red pooling slow in the cracks, spreading like roots through uneven floor. The scent rose sharp—metallic, animal, wrong in the way prey-smell is wrong when you're standing on the other side of the blade.
I squeezed the knife handle. Nothing answered. My fingers lagged a heartbeat behind the command.
Raska's ears swiveled forward, picking up even the small movements around the fog. Tail stiffened.
We waited.
The river roared somewhere behind the pool, sound muffled by fog that moved like it had weight. Drips seemed close, then gone, then back from a completely different angle. Distance didn't mean anything down here.
The silence stretched until Lili broke it.
"Lili realizes she does not know Mister Partner's name."
Three more heads turned towards us.
"You need my name?" I asked.
"Yes."
"Why?"
She considered that. "For records."
Raska snorted quietly through her nose.
I didn't answer right away. The silence stretched just long enough to feel deliberate.
"Butcher," I said.
Lili paused.
Welf looked at my waist.
"Oh..." A grin tugged at his mouth. "That explains your weird weapon choices."
Bell made a choking sound and turned it into a cough.
"…Lili believes this is not Mister Partner's true name."
I shrugged. "You asked for a name."
She tilted her head. Then nodded once.
"Understood. Concealment for personal reasons."
Raska stared at me. Long.
"I actually thought that was real."
My mind went blank for a second. "What?"
"Your name. Butcher." She shrugged. "It was weird. That's why I stuck with 'Goblin Boy.'"
The words landed.
Welf froze.
Then laughed—full and loud, bending at the waist, one hand clutching his stomach.
"Goblin Boy?"
He wheezed. "That's even better."
Bell tried to keep a straight face. His mouth twitched anyway.
For half a second, the dungeon loosened its grip.
Then—
A rattle rolled through the stone.
Deep. Grinding. Like something heavy dragging itself awake.
Welf's laughter cut off mid-breath.
Raska's ears snapped forward. Tail went rigid.
The sound came again. Closer.
Something moved between fog.
Raska turned slowly toward the corridor.
"They," she said quietly, "are coming."
"Break time's over, it seems." Welf unsheathed his greatsword.
Movement on the left ledge.
Silverback. Shoulders broad enough to block the alcove it was stepping out of, silver fur matted dark with moisture, mane hanging thick down the back of its neck. Red eyes locked on the blood. Nostrils flaring.
"Almiraj blood... It's working."
Another slid from the right. Third from an alcove that wasn't there two seconds ago.
"Hey, white-haired kid."
"Yes, Miss Raska."
"'Miss'? Do I look like someone's grandmother to you?"
"S-Sorry."
"Take left, I'll go right." She looked back. "Others, fill our blind spots."
Three voices overlapped.
"Got it."
Bell moved first. Stepped left without another word, Hestia Knife already drawn, faint purple glow in the fog.
Raska rolled her shoulders once. "Don't take your eyes off them even for a second. Don't let them ambush."
We moved, following Raska and Bell.
Welf raised his greatsword toward the high ledge.
I drew both knives. Cleaver right. Skinner left.
The lead Silverback charged.
Bell slipped under the first swing, blade flashing up to cut tendon behind the knee. It stumbled. Welf's greatsword came down mid-recovery, caught the arm, steel ringing against bone. The thing roared, twisted.
Raska met hers head-on. Fist to sternum. Crack loud enough to hear over the river. It folded forward.
I drove the cleaver into its throat. Hot blood sprayed across my knuckles, up my forearm.
Red eyes flickered. Faded.
Third one moved.
It lunged from the left ledge, trying to ambush Bell while he was still turning from his first dodge.
Raska's ears flicked. "Cover fire!"
"On it." Lili answered instantly.
Her bolt hissed through the fog, punching into the Silverback's shoulder just enough to stagger it and buy Bell a heartbeat.
Bell jumped back, recovered his footing, and drove the Hestia Knife straight into its kneecap. The joint buckled with a wet crunch.
The monster's massive arm swung down—meant to crush Bell flat—but Raska was already there. She caught the wrist mid-swing, yanked hard, and at the same time slammed her boot into the injured knee.
The Silverback lurched, off-balance, caught mid-fall with its right hand scraping stone for purchase.
Welf didn't hesitate. His greatsword flashed across in a low arc, severing the grasping hand clean at the wrist. The limb thudded to the ground, fingers still twitching.
The beast toppled forward with a guttural roar, head dropping low.
One final kick from Raska—sharp, twisting—snapped its head at an unnatural angle.
Smoke rose with a hiss—dry heat flashing across my face, sudden and sharp.
The smell hit a second later.
Burnt metal.
The bodies dissolved—fur, muscle, bone turning to black ash the fog swallowed. Three magic stones clattered on wet stone.
The floor where it had bled was clean. Dry.
Lili stepped forward, collected the stones, tucked them into her pouch.
Next wave came before we could regroup.
Two from the water's edge—the river roar masked their approach until too late.
One dropped heavy from above, impact shaking ground.
Instincts took over.
Bell left. I went right. Raska forward.
My heel slid half an inch on wet stone. I compensated, stance wider than I wanted.
Water-edge one lunged at her. She casually moved left, grabbed its wrist mid-swing, wrenched. Bone popped wet and loud. My skinner knife found ribs while it was off-balance.
Lili's bolt punched the ledge-dropper's knee. It buckled. Bell finished it clean—thrust to spine.
The bodies dissolved. That dry heat again. Burnt-metal smell.
Stones clinked.
Kills blurred. Pairs. Trios. Drawn by blood scent, always dying clean, dissolving to nothing but stones and that flash of wrong heat.
My boots squelched now. Water seeping in. Every step a little heavier.
One group faked retreat—two held back while a third charged. Raska committed. The fakers leaped from hidden ledge the second she was occupied.
A scrape echoed left. No—above. The sound lied.
Bell barely dodged. I pivoted late—cleaver heavy like swinging lead. Stone slick underfoot. My heel slipped. Weight shifted wrong. Positioning worsened.
Welf covered. Took the hit meant for me. Grunted. Finished the kill.
Ash and heat. Stones.
Formation adjusted. Tighter. Movements more deliberate. No one stood shoulder-to-shoulder anymore.
Raska's ears stayed back. "If you have a problem, say it."
"It's nothing. Just... hand slipped."
My chest felt tight. Not from exertion. Breaths came shorter.
More came. Four this time. Bell calling positions. Welf adjusting guard angles. Raska taking hits she shouldn't because my timing kept lagging.
I noticed Bell adjust his position between kills. Half a step farther from me than before.
The bodies turned to smoke. Stones. Each dissolution the same—hiss, heat flash, burnt-metal smell. Clean floor after.
I stared at clean stone after another body dissolved.
The tightness in my chest spread. Not from breathing. From something building since... I'd lost count.
I sighed.
"After this many, why no drops yet?"
Words slipped out. Muttered. Mostly to myself.
Raska's ears snapped back.
Welf turned. Voice flat. "Are you serious right now?"
I blinked. "What?"
Lili stepped closer. "Magic stones are core energy. Remove them and monsters vanish. The Dungeon reclaims the body. But some parts store residual energy." She paused. Looked at me like take the hint.
"She says drops are rare. Except magic stones," Welf said, scratching his head.
The silence hit before the realization did.
"Lili thinks this is common knowledge. Mister Partner didn't even know that?"
She tilted her head innocently—pricking the wound.
I tried a smile. Small. Deflecting.
"Oh. Just… forgot?"
Silence.
Blank stares all around.
Even Raska.
Bell's mouth slightly open. Welf's eyebrow raised. Raska's tail didn't move.
I dropped my head.
"Oh. Not funny?"
No one answered.
Sharp metallic clack—Welf re-sheathing his sword.
Silence stretched. Heavy.
Embarrassment and frustration hit me like one of those scenes I used to call garbage writing. Guess I'm living in a trash fire now.
I should prove myself.
I tightened my grip on the knives.
At the same time I should end this expedition before things get ugly…
An idea came to mind. Something I'd theorized back then—just a fan outside, chasing patterns.
---