The clothing shop is larger, with racks of tunics and trousers organized by size and quality. A young man runs the place, barely older than you, with a kind of bored expression .
"Looking for adventurer basics?" he asks, giving your jeans and hoodie a pointed look.
"Please," you say.
He shows you to a section of practical clothing—simple tunics in undyed linen, sturdy canvas pants, leather belts.
"Try these," he says, handing you two outfits. "Changing room's in the back."
The clothes fit well enough, though they feel strange. The tunic is rougher than you're used to, the pants stiffer. You look at yourself in the small mirror and barely recognize the person staring back.
I look like I belong in a Renaissance fair.
When you emerge, Hestia claps her hands. "Perfect!
The total is more than the toiletries—fifteen hundred valis. Hestia counts out the coins without comment, but you can see the calculation happening behind her eyes. How much is left ? How long will it last ?
"I'll pay you back," you say as you leave the shop, the words bursting out before you can stop them. "Every valis. I promise."
Hestia looks at you, surprised. Then her expression softens into something warm. "I know you will. That's why I'm not worried."
She's lying. She's definitely worried.
But you don't call her on it.
The armor shop—"The Forge," according to the sign—is larger than the other stores, with displays of gleaming armor in the windows. The Hephaestus Familia crest is carved above the door: a hammer crossed with flames.
Inside, the walls are lined with equipment. Light armor, heavy armor, shields, helmets, boots. Everything an adventurer could need, all far more expensive than you can afford.
A woman looks up from the counter. Her expression is professional but not unfriendly.
"Hestia," she says. "Back again?"
"We need armor for Wakanabe," Hestia says. "Beginner level. And we're working with a very limited budget .
"For a first-timer, you want light armor. Something that protects your vitals without slowing you down." She pulls a leather chest guard from a rack. "This is standard issue. It'll stop a goblin's claws or a kobold's teeth from doing serious damage to your torso."
She holds it up against you, checking the fit. "Arms too. You'll instinctively raise your arms to defend yourself, so you need protection there." She adds leather vambraces to the growing pile.
"Boots," she continues, moving to another section. "Sturdy ones. The Dungeon floors aren't smooth. You'll be climbing over rocks, running through water, dodging attacks. You need ankle support and thick soles."
The boots she selects are heavier than your sneakers, made of hardened leather with metal reinforcement at the toes.
"And finally—" She pulls out a belt with multiple pouches. "For carrying magic stones. You'll be collecting them to sell. This keeps your hands free for your weapon."
When she's done, you're wearing more leather than you've ever worn in your life. The chest guard is stiff and uncomfortable, the vambraces chafe at your wrists, and the boots feel like lead weights.
"How does it feel?" the woman asks.
"Heavy," you admit.
"You'll get used to it. The alternative is dying, so I'd suggest adapting quickly." She's blunt, but not cruel. "Don't go deeper than the fourth floor until you've leveled up at least once. The monsters get significantly more dangerous after that."
"What's on the first few floors?" you ask.
"First floor: goblins, the occasional kobold.They are Weak, stupid, and easy to kill. Second floor: more kobolds, some dungeon lizards. Still manageable. Third floor: the enemies get faster, a bit smarter. Fourth floor is where new adventurers start dying if they're not careful." She pauses. "Stay on the first two floors until you're confident. Better to earn less and live than to be greedy and die."
The words settle like stones in your gut.
"How much for all of this?" Hestia asks.
The woman tallies the items. "Three thousand valis. But—" She raises a hand before Hestia can respond. "I can extend credit on two thousand. You pay a thousand now, the rest after your first week of successful Dungeon runs."
"Really?" Hestia looks shocked. "You'd do that?"
"You're good for it," the woman says simply. "You always pay your debts, even if it takes time. And I'd rather a new adventurer be properly equipped than die on the first floor because they couldn't afford protection."
Hestia's eyes go bright with what might be tears. "Thank you. Truly."
The woman waves off the gratitude, but you catch a small smile. "Just make sure your child comes back alive to pay me. I have a reputation to maintain."
Outside, with the thousand valis paid and the debt recorded in a small ledger, you're officially equipped.
You're also officially in debt for over two thousand valis, not counting whatever Hestia still owes from before.
No pressure. Just have to not die while earning enough money to pay back people who are being kind to you out of pity.
"You look good!" Hestia says, circling you on the street. She adjusts a strap on your chest guard, tightens a buckle on your belt. "Like a real adventurer!"
"I don't feel like one," you say honestly.
"That's normal." She steps back, satisfied with her adjustments. "Bell—my first child—he didn't feel like an adventurer either, his first day. He was terrified. But he went into the Dungeon anyway, and he came back alive, and that's what matters."
Bell. The one who left her for a bigger Familia.
You don't ask about him. The way Hestia's smile tightens slightly tells you it's not a happy subject.
"Okay," she says, forcibly bright again. "You need to register with the Guild before you can legally enter the Dungeon. We should do that now."
The Guild headquarters is as chaotic as you remember. Adventurers crowd the space, lining up at service counters, examining notice boards, arguing about quest rewards. The noise is overwhelming.
Hestia leads you to a counter marked "New Registrations." The receptionist is young, professional, and clearly exhausted.
"Name?" she asks, not looking up from her paperwork.
"Wakanabe Tanaki," you say.
"Familia?"
"Hestia Familia," Hestia says proudly.
The receptionist's pen pauses. She looks up, her expression shifting to something between surprise and pity. "The Hestia Familia? I thought that was—" She catches herself. "My apologies. Welcome, Wakanabe Tanaki, to the Guild."
She processes your registration efficiently—recording your name, your Familia affiliation, your level (1), and issuing you a Guild identification card. The card is small, made of what feels like thick paper, with your information written in neat script.
"This allows you legal entry to the Dungeon," the receptionist explains. "You're required to report any major incidents—floor boss encounters, rare monster sightings, injuries requiring Guild medical attention. Failure to report can result in fines or suspension of your Dungeon privileges."
"Understood," you say, tucking the card carefully into one of your belt pouches.
"One more thing." The receptionist looks at you directly, her expression serious. "The Dungeon is not a playing ground . Eighty percent of adventurer deaths occur within the first three months. Stay alert, and stay on the upper floors, and if something feels wrong, retreat. Pride isn't worth your life."
"I'll remember that," you say quietly remembering that it's already what the third time that someones tells you that .
Outside, Hestia checks the position of the sun and her eyes widen. "Oh no. Oh no, I'm late!"
"Late for what?"
"Work! I have to work!" She's already backing away, panic clear on her face. "I was supposed to be there an hour ago and my boss is going to kill me—"
"Wait, where do you work?"
She's practically running now, calling back over her shoulder. "Be careful in the Dungeon, okay? Don't take risks! Come back to the church when you're done! I'll see you tonight!"
"Hestia—"
But she's gone, disappearing into the crowd, leaving you standing alone in the middle of the busy street.
You look down at yourself. Leather armor. Weapons belt. Guild identification card. Everything you need to be an adventurer.
Everything except the courage to actually do it.
Come on. You've come this far. You can do this.
Babel Tower dominates the skyline—a massive white structure that seems to pierce the clouds. Even from here, you can see adventurers flowing in and out of the entrance like ants.
You take a breath. Adjust your armor. Check that your knife is secure at your belt.
One step at a time. Just survive. That's all you have to do.
You start walking toward the tower.
The entrance to the Dungeon is a spiral staircase descending into the earth.
The temperature drops as you go down, the air growing cooler and damper. The walls glow with a faint blue light—some kind of bioluminescence, maybe? Magic? You don't know. But it pulses softly, like a heartbeat, casting strange shadows on the stone.
Other adventurers pass you on the stairs.
The staircase seems endless. By the time you reach the bottom—the actual first floor of the Dungeon—your legs are trembling and your heart is pounding.
The first floor opens up into a massive cavern. The ceiling arches high above, lost in shadow. Tunnels branch off in every direction, dark mouths leading into the unknown. The blue glow is everywhere, emanating from the walls themselves, giving everything an eerie, underwater quality.
A few adventurers stand near the entrance, checking their equipment. Others are already heading into the tunnels.
Just pick a tunnel. Any tunnel. They're all the same on the first floor, right?
You choose one at random and step forward.
The moment you leave the central chamber, the noise of other adventurers fades. The tunnel swallows you, its walls close and oppressive. Your footsteps echo. Your breathing sounds too loud.
The blue glow pulses in rhythm with your heartbeat. Or maybe your heartbeat is matching the glow. You can't tell anymore.
Somewhere ahead, deeper in the tunnel, you hear it.
A chittering sound. High-pitched and repetitive, like clicks and scrapes combined. It echoes off the stone walls, making it impossible to tell how far away it is.
Monsters.
Your hand finds the knife at your belt. The leather grip is rough under your palm, the blade cold and unfamiliar. You've never used a weapon before. Never fought anything more dangerous than a parking meter.
Stay calm. The armorer said goblins are weak. Stupid . An easy to kill.
But knowing something intellectually and experiencing it physically are two very different things.
The chittering grows louder.
You press yourself against the wall, trying to see ahead in the dim blue light. The tunnel curves slightly, blocking your view. The sound is coming from around that bend.
Multiple sources. At least two, maybe three.
The realization comes unbidden—a clarity you shouldn't have. Your Outsider's Instinct skill, maybe? Alerting you to danger before you can see it?
You tighten your grip on the knife and move forward, each step deliberate and quiet.
Around the curve, the tunnel opens slightly. And there they are.
Three goblins.
They're smaller than you expected—barely three feet tall—with gray-green skin and hunched postures. Their faces are twisted and ugly, all teeth and beady red eyes. They're clustered around something on the ground, tearing at it with clawed hands, making those awful chittering sounds.
They haven't noticed you yet.
This is your chance. Attack while they're distracted.
But you can't make your legs move.
Because those are monsters. Real, living monsters that would not hesitate to kill you. And you're supposed to fight them with a knife you barely know how to hold.
What the hell am I doing here?
One of the goblins looks up. Its red eyes lock onto yours.
It screams—a high-pitched shriek that echoes through the tunnel—and the other two spin around, abandoning their meal.
Three pairs of red eyes. Three sets of claws. Three mouths full of jagged teeth.
All focused on you.
Move. MOVE!
Your body finally responds, instinct overriding fear.
The goblins charge.
And somewhere in the back of your mind, a single thought surfaces with crystal clarity:
This is where you find out if you can survive in this world.