They left the settlement without ceremony.
No one waved them off. No one watched for long. The road beyond the town gates changed from stone to dirt.
He found himself walking a half-step behind the others without quite remembering when he'd fallen there.
Fern moved ahead, staff tapping lightly against the packed dirt as she chose the path without pausing.
Stark drifted between front and back, sometimes humming, sometimes kicking loose stones off the road.
Frieren walked last—or maybe not last. She walked where she pleased, unhurried, eyes half-lidded, half asleep.
It took him longer than it should have to understand what felt wrong.
No one had asked him where he wanted to go next.
No one checked whether he was keeping up.
They adjusted around him naturally. He wasn't guiding them.
He wasn't accompanying them.
He was being escorted.
The realization came quietly, without fear. Just weight. A shift in understanding. Whatever authority he might have felt when posting the request, whatever control he might have imagined himself retaining—it had already passed out of his hands.
And strangely, that was… fine.
"Road's nicer than the last one," Stark said suddenly, breaking the silence. "Less mud."
He glanced at him. "You keep track of that?"
"Absolutely," Stark said cheerfully. "Mud gets in everything. Armor, boots and all"
Fern didn't react. Frieren hummed faintly, as if in agreement with some unrelated thought.
He exhaled, some tension easing from his shoulders. Ordinary conversations, those helped.
"How far is it?" he asked.
"To the dungeon?" Stark shrugged. "Half a day. Maybe less if Fern doesn't slow us down."
"I am walking at a normal pace," Fern replied flatly.
"You walk like you're late for something that hasn't happened yet."
"It's called efficiency."
He watched Frieren from behind. She didn't scan the road ahead. Didn't glance to the sides, simingly half asleep, while her companion seemed unconcerned.
"It's changed… fifty years?" Frieren murmured, eyes opening a little, still half asleep.
" From hero-" Stark opened his mouth....
"Don't," Fern said calmly, without looking back.
He closed it again.
The father slowed his steps. A child—
that was still how his mind insisted on framing her.
A strange one, certainly. White hair. Odd ears. Detached in a way that didn't feel normal. But still—
"Hey," Stark said suddenly, falling back to walk beside him. "You okay?"
" Yeah"
They walked a while longer. The forest thinned in places, revealing stretches of open land dotted with low stone markers half-swallowed by grass.
"At least this job is familiar," Stark said, stretching his arms. "Way better than that gate mess."
For some reason the word snagged in the his thoughts.
"Gate?" he asked, keeping his tone unnatural.
"Mm," Stark said. "Annoying job. Monsters camping outside a gate , red mist everywhere."
"I thought it was poisonous at first"
Frieren yawned. "That mist wasn't poisonous. It was just a mixture of energies. Unstable."
Frieren nodded. "Shame. I wanted to look at it longer, but there was a barrier on it"
Stark tilted his head, thinking.
"Monsters were much weaker than the dragon, though."
Fern, turned to look at stark , released a tired sigh before turning back , continuing forward.
"hey fern, what was that for...."
They kept walking.
The father said nothing, but something came quietly in his mind, Chaos portals, chaos energy.
And the way they spoke about it—casual, almost dismissive—made his stomach tighten more than the word dragon ever had.
Frieren didn't look impressed by the memory.
"We should mention it when we pass by the tower," she said. "Someone will want to keep an eye on it."
"When?" Stark asked.
"Whenever," she replied.
Fern accepted that answer without comment.
The road stretched ahead, unremarkable. Trees on either side. The sound of wind moving through leaves. Nothing about it suggested danger.
It was how ordinary everything felt—to him.
And how easily the world made room for that.
The road ended without warning.
There was no gate. No marker. No sign declaring danger or significance. Just a narrowing of the dirt path as it slipped between two stone outcroppings, the ground darkening beneath their feet, as if the light itself hesitated to follow.
Stark stopped first.
"Here," he said, rolling his shoulders once. Casual, but not loose. "This is it."
The father slowed without meaning to. His body reacted before his thoughts could catch up. The air felt different—thicker, maybe. Not heavier. Just… aware.
Fern turned and looked at him.
"We'll turn back if you want," she said. "No penalty. No explanation needed."
It surprised him how easily she said it. As if the option had always existed. As if she fully expected some people to stop here.
He looked past them.
The opening wasn't dramatic. Stone walls worn smooth by time. A shallow descent where the path dipped into shadow. He couldn't hear anything from inside—no wind, no water, no movement at all.
That was worse.
"I'll go," he said, after a moment. The words came out steadier than he felt. "I asked for this."
Frieren had already stepped forward.
She didn't pause at the threshold. Didn't test the ground or glance back. She simply walked in, staff tapping once against stone as she passed fully into the dim.
Stark followed, adjusting the strap on his weapon. "If anything weird happens," he said lightly, "just stay behind us and try not to scream."
"That's not helpful," Fern said, moving after him.
"It's realistic."
The father hesitated one last time, feeling the gun in his jacket.
Then he crossed the line.
The temperature shifted immediately. Not cold, not warm. The light from behind them thinned, swallowed by the stone walls as the passage bent inward.
Sound changed too. His footsteps felt closer to his ears.
They walked in silence for a time.
Fern's presence stayed just ahead of him, steady and controlled. Stark's movements were louder, deliberate. Frieren drifted forward, unbothered, her pace unchanged.
No one explained anything.
And somehow, that made it worse.
And that, more than anything, made him aware of how small he was inside it.
He hadn't expected fear to come like this—quiet, creeping. Not panic yet. Just awareness. Every sound lingered too long.
Every shadow seemed deeper than it should have been.
Then it happened.
Something moved.
Not ahead. Not with warning. Just there—a shape pulling itself free from the darkness to the side, limbs scraping stone, a wet, rasping sound filling the corridor.
His body reacted before his thoughts did.
The gun was in his hand, the weight suddenly familiar, grounding. His finger pulled the trigger—
The sound tore through the dungeon like a rupture.
The recoil slammed into his arm, the shock jarring his teeth. The muzzle flash lit the walls for a heartbeat, harsh and white.
The monster recoiled—or maybe it didn't. He couldn't tell through the ringing in his ears.
Stark moved.
One moment the boy was beside him, the next he was past him, axe already in motion. The blade bit deep with a sound like splitting wood. The creature collapsed in on itself, its momentum cut short, the body sliding lifelessly to the stone.
Fern's staff glowed briefly. Then dimmed.
Silence rushed back in, heavier than before.
The father stood frozen, the gun still raised, ears ringing. His breath came too fast. His hands were shaking. He hadn't noticed until the shaking didn't stop.
No one said anything for a moment.
Stark glanced back, eyes wide—not alarmed, but curious. "Whoa," he said. "That thing's loud."
Fern turned her head slightly, assessing the corpse, then the wall where the shot had struck. Her gaze lingered for a moment longer on the weapon in his hand.
Frieren crouched near the wall, peering at it with mild interest. She didn't seem disturbed. If anything, she looked faintly bored.
"That wasn't magic," Stark said. "Was it?"
The father swallowed. Lowered the gun slowly. His arm felt weak.
"No," he said. "It's… a tool."
Frieren hummed, standing again. Her eyes flicked to the weapon, then away.
"Interesting."
That was all.
They moved on, stepping around the body without ceremony.
It took him several steps to realize his legs were still shaking.
"Why did you come here?" Fern asked, her voice even, as if she were asking about the weather.
He hesitated.
The words caught somewhere behind his throat.
"My daughter is sick," he said finally. "Back home, she can be cured but it's risky. I thought… maybe if I found something here, anything."
No one interrupted him.
Stark scratched the back of his head.
"Dungeons can have stuff like that," he said. "Sometimes."
Fern nodded. "Artifacts. Grimoires. Enchanted items. Not all are useful though."
"Most aren't," Frieren added. "And some are dangerous."
The honesty in it struck harder than he would like to admit.
"But," Stark said, glancing at him, "it's not impossible."
The father let that settle.
Not a certainty, but also not nothing.
They continued deeper, the dungeon swallowing the sound of their steps. The rhythm returned. The walls closed in again. The danger normalized itself around them.
This time, when he followed, it wasn't because he was being led.
It was because he had decided to keep going.
After some time as they continued corridor narrowed before opening into the final chamber.
The stone floor was uneven, worn smooth in places, cracked in others. Faint traces of magic clung to the air like dust that never quite settled. A few broken fragments—rusted metal, splintered wood—suggested others had been here before, long ago.
"This should be it," Stark said, rolling his shoulders.
The father felt a loosening in his chest before he realized he'd been holding his breath.
So this was the end.
His eyes swept the room instinctively—and stopped.
A treasure chest sat near the center, squat and old, its surface dulled by time.
Frieren reacted instantly.
She stepped forward without hesitation, eyes sharpening in a way he hadn't seen yet.
Whatever sleepiness usually clung to her vanished, replaced by focused attention.
"Ah," she said softly.
"That's a mimic," Stark said at the same time, resigned.
"I know," Frieren replied, already kneeling.
Fern's mouth opened. Closed.
"What is a mimic...." the father started.
The lid snapped open.
And then snapped shut.
The chest lunged forward, teeth clamping down around Frieren's upper body with a hollow thunk.
There was a muffled sound from inside.
Something between a sigh and mild irritation.
Stark groaned. "Again…"
Fern moved without panic, staff already glowing as she anchored the mimic in place. A brief burst of magic, controlled and precise, and the creature went still. Stark pried it open with practiced efficiency.
Frieren was released, unharmed, hair slightly mussed.
She brushed dust from her sleeves.
"…It was a mimic," she said calmly.
The father stared.
"That happens a lot?" he asked, before he could stop himself.
"Yes," Fern said.
"Yes" Stark added.
Frieren nodded once, as if this were simply a statistical fact.
And then she looked inside again.
"It's here " she said with a smile.
Inside lay a book.
A grimoire.
The father's heart kicked.
Magic.
Frieren's fingers brushed the cover with unmistakable interest.
"What does it do?" Stark asked, peering over her shoulder.
Frieren turned a page. Then another.
"Clothing alteration," she said,her eyes sparked "Changes color and appearance based on the user's image."
Stark blinked. "…That's it?"
Frieren hummed. "The construction is elegant."
Fern leaned closer, reading a line. "It's purely aesthetic."
The father's hope flared—and died almost immediately.
No healing. No restoration. No miracle.
Useful for no one who needed this dungeon.
He looked away before they could notice.
Frieren, meanwhile, continued reading, utterly unconcerned with its lack of practical value.
Her expression held the same quiet curiosity he'd seen earlier—focused, satisfied, as though she'd found something rare simply because it existed.
"This kind of spell is uncommon," she added.
"Most people don't bother recording it."
Stark shrugged. "Figures."
Fern closed the chest once the grimoire was secured. "That's everything."
No celebration followed.
No sense of victory.
They simply accepted it.
The dungeon had given what it had.
The father stood there, the weight of that settling in his chest.
So this was how it ended.
Not with answers.
Not with salvation.
Just… completion.
And somehow, that was the hardest part.
They stepped out of the dungeon without fanfare.
The light outside felt different after hours underground—less sharp, quieter somehow.
The air smelled of grass and old stone. Stark stretched with a groan, cracking his shoulders.
Fern adjusted her cloak, already scanning the surroundings out of habit.
Frieren lingered near the entrance, looking down at the grimoire in her hands.
She turned it once, then twice, as if checking its weight.
"Are you planning to sell this?" she asked, tone casual.
He blinked. "Sell it?"
She nodded, eyes still on the cover. "I collect spells like this."
He looked at the book again. All that ink. All that hope that had drained out of him the moment he'd realized what kind of magic it was.
"You can have it," he said. "It's no use to me."
Frieren paused.
Then, without ceremony, she tucked it away.
Stark stared. "That was fast."
"It changes clothes," Frieren said. "That's rare."
Fern accepted that explanation without comment.
They started down the path away from the dungeon, the stone steps giving way to packed earth. No one spoke for a while. The forest was calm. Too calm, after everything.
Then Frieren stopped.
She turned around and looked at him—not the distracted glance she usually gave the world, but something more focused.
Thoughtful.
"If you could bring your daughter to me, " she said, "I can heal her"
The words hit him like a sudden warmth to the chest.
His breath caught. His steps slowed.
"You… could?" he asked.
"Yes," Frieren replied. "Easily."
For a moment, the world tilted.
His daughter's face rose unbidden in his mind. Pale. Knees bent, face on her knees sitting in a chair accross from him.
Then reality followed, heavy and unavoidable.
"I don't know if I can go back," he said quietly. "I don't even know how I got here. And I don't know if I can bring anyone else."
The warmth faded, leaving something hollow behind.
Frieren nodded, as if that answer made sense.
Stark frowned. "You don't how you came here, what does that mean?"
He hesitated. Then let the words spill out, because there was nothing left to protect and no reason to lie.
He told them everything.
About his world. About the world awakening it's consciousness. About the Trade Contract.
About people suddenly gaining it overnight. About portals tearing open where they shouldn't exist. About why he'd come here in the first place.
No speeches. No theories. Just facts, as he'd lived them.
When he finished, the forest was quiet again.
"Show me," Frieren said.
He looked at her confused.
"Trade contract"
Then the Trade Contract hovered faintly, before him as he called it out,Frieren leaned closer. Fern did the same.
"It's strange," Frieren murmured.
"Similar?"
"stable?"
After a moment, Frieren spoke again.
"If it really trades anything for anything," she said, eyes distant, "then trading a spell should work."
"If it really trades anything for anything," she said, eyes unfocused, "then trading a spell should work."
He looked at her.
"Which one?" he asked, with renewed hope.
She answered without hesitation.
"Healing Bell."
He nodded.
Then he didn't hesitate, drafted the terms of trade in his mind and they started appearing on the trade contract.
"wait.." as he was about initiate trade freiren stopped him from continuing.
"hmm....add another term, you will also get the understanding of how to use the spell"
"If you only take the formula," she said, thinking aloud, "you won't be able to use it right away."
Hearing her he nodded once and modified the terms.
finally the terms were finalized as-
Offered by Frieren:
-Spell Formula: Healing Bell
-Complete casting method and operational understanding required to perform the spell.
Offered by Daniel :
-The grimoire currently in Daniel's possession.
Trade Scope:
-The above items will be exchanged directly between Frieren and Daniel.
-Only explicitly stated components will be exchanged.
-Trade is irreversible upon confirmation.
Frieren leaned slightly forward.
"…So that's how it defines it," she murmured, studying the text with open curiosity.
"Only what is written. Nothing implied."
Fern glanced between them. "You can really trade that?"
Frieren nodded. "Apparently."
He swallowed.
Every video he had ever seen — every failed attempt, every collapsed exchange — flashed through his mind.
They had all ended here.
With hesitation.
He pushed it down.
"I accept," he said.
The final line appeared.
Confirm Trade?
[Yes]
He confirmed.
Nothing exploded.
Nothing glowed.
There was no sensation of power moving between them.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened at all, he thought it failed.
Then—
The knowledge was there.
Not learned.
Not granted.
Simply present.
He knew the spell, he knew how to cast it.
His breath hitched.
"It… worked," he whispered.
Fern turned sharply. "What do you mean, worked?"
Before he could answer, Frieren went still.
She frowned.
Just slightly.
Her eyes narrowed, gaze turning inward.
"…Hm."
She paused.
Then paused again.
"…That's strange," she said.
Stark blinked. "What is?"
Frieren opened her mouth.
Stopped.
She searched for words that wouldn't come.
"I know I gave something away," she said.
"But I don't know what it was."
Her fingers tightened around her staff.
"There's an empty space," she added.
"And nothing inside it."
The room fell silent.
He laughed — quiet, breathless.
"So it wasn't a lie," he said. "It really worked…"
He raised his hand instinctively, following the spell's structure.
Nothing responded.