Pelka scrambled to her feet, her face nearly the same color as the scarlet data-crystals she was frantically gathering back into her briefcase. She adjusted her thick bangs, though they remained stubbornly low over her eyes, and cleared her throat with a sound that was half-squeak, half-professional cough.

  "I-I apologize…" Pelka stammered, smoothing her rumpled suit. She moved close to the screen, her hands flying over the interface with a speed that betrayed her high-functioning intellect. "Regarding the entry procedure: as the Boss mentioned, we have exactly sixty seconds. My artifacts will create a resonant frequency to temporarily desynchronize the seals. But once we are inside, we cannot simply rush."

  She looked at Aiven, her ears twitching. "Standard protocol for a ruin of this class requires a methodical advance. I will be deploying booby-trap detection artifacts every fifty meters. We must ensure there are no pressure plates, mana-wires, or spatial traps before we move an inch. One wrong step could trigger a collapse or a localized vacuum."

  Virelle, who had been idly watching a dust mote, let out a long, weary sigh. "How dreadfully pedantic. Why must we play this game of detect and crawl? No booby trap in this century could possibly harm me, let alone my Master. I could simply ignite the entire first floor, fly at a velocity that defies your primitive sensors, grab the shiny key, and be back on the airship before your sheep-ears stop vibrating. Mission accomplished."

  Pelka’s eyes, though hidden, seemed to widen in terror. "N-no! Absolutely not! If you were to blow up the dungeon, the Loom-Breaker itself might not survive the structural trauma. And more importantly... we aren't sure how the dungeon will react. It is not unheard of for high-tier dungeons to change their own rules to retaliate against massive destruction."

  Aiven frowned. "Change the rules? You mean like... moving walls?"

  "Teleporting party members to separate rooms, shifting the internal geometry, creating entirely new pathways to lure you into a dead-end," Pelka explained, her voice gaining a feverish edge. "It is a defense mechanism."

  Aiven felt a sudden, cold prickle in his chest. His mind flashed back to his very first quest—trash duty in a low-level dungeon at Lowhaven. He remembered the strange, female voice in his head asking for help, and the way the tunnels had seemingly warped beneath his feet, delivering him straight into the path of an anomaly monster that should never have been there.

  "How can a dungeon do that?" Aiven asked, his voice sounding hollow. "I’ve heard theories that some higher-tier cores are... sentient. Is that true?"

  Pelka nodded, her bangs swaying. "Yes. Higher-level dungeons are dangerous not just because of the monsters, but because they are smarter. They have a primitive awareness. If the core feels threatened, it treats the intruders like a virus, warping the rules of the dungeon itself to isolate and eliminate them."

  Aiven stayed silent, a knot of confusion tightening in his stomach. The dungeon he had been in during trash duty was supposed to be entry-level. Things didn't add up. If only high-tier dungeons were sentient, why had that place acted with such deliberate malice? He pushed the thought aside for now; he would have more time to pick Pelka’s brain once they were on the airship.

  "There are too many complications," Virelle remarked, crossing her arms. "Why can't everything just consent to being destroyed? Life would be much easier if the world simply understood its role as my charcoal painting."

  "Nothing gives consent to being killed, Virelle," Aiven said quietly.

  "A pity," she huffed. She turned back to Pelka, her violet-magenta eyes narrowing. "I still think a mere dungeon would not be able to stop me. It would be dead before it could play its little tricks on us."

  "If... if you are truly that confident," Pelka whispered, looking between Aiven and the floating mage, "and can ensure our safety while you... go on a rampage... then perhaps it is worth a try. But the risks to the artifact—"

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  "Who said anything about keeping you safe?" Virelle interrupted, her voice gaining a sharp, chilling edge. She looked at Pelka with the same boredom she might show a discarded ledger. "I exist to protect my Master. As for the others—the sheep and the lion—I couldn't care less. If the dungeon decides to swallow you whole, I won't waste a single spark to pull you back."

  The room went deathly silent. Pelka’s ears slumped, and though her bangs covered her eyes, Aiven could see the visible tremor in her shoulders. The poor girl looked like she was about to be served as a main course.

  "Virelle," Aiven said, his face flushing with embarrassment. He reached out and tugged on her translucent sleeve. "Stop that. We're a team. You're just joking around, right?"

  Virelle misread the signal again like last time. She caught Aiven’s hand in hers, her fingers interlacing with his. She looked at him with a look of absolute, terrifying devotion. "I am not joking, Master. These animals truly do not matter to me. Your safety is the only variable in this entire archipelago that carries any weight."

  Aiven thought he really needed to tell Virelle that not all gestures involving him touching her arm meant a desire for handholding.

  He looked toward the head of the table. Cyria Amberfang was watching the entire exchange with a look of profound amusement, her fox ears twitching as if she were enjoying a particularly good play.

  Aiven let out a long, weary sigh. He looked back at Virelle, holding her gaze. "Virelle... if there are casualties on Vulpine’s side, Cyria might decide we’re a liability. She might break the deal. And if she breaks the deal, we lose our protection. That would endanger us."

  Virelle paused, her eyes flickering as she processed his argument. She looked at the terrified Pelka, then at the grinning Fox CEO, and let out a sharp, haughty sniff.

  "Fine," she muttered, her grip on Aiven’s hand remaining firm. "If it is for the sake of my Master’s safety, I shall reluctantly tone down my violence. I will ensure the snack-creature and the rug do not perish. But do not expect me to be happy about the extra cargo."

  "I'll take it," Aiven whispered, finally squeezing her hand back.

  Cyria leaned closer to the table, her small fang glinting in a mischievous smile. "Excellent. I guess you’re not a mere deadweight after all, Aiven. You should give yourself more cre—"

  ZAP—CRACK.

  A beam of violet mana shrieked through the air, barely grazing Cyria’s hair. It didn't strike her, but it slammed into the heavy double doors behind her, blowing a perfectly circular, keyhole-sized hole through the reinforced wood.

  The doors burst open instantly. Vane barged in, his claws unsheathed and his mane bristling as he prepared to defend his boss.

  Cyria didn't flinch. She simply raised her hand, and Vane halted in his tracks, though his growl still rumbled deep in his chest.

  Virelle loomed above her chair, her prismatic orb spinning with a cold, lethal intensity. Her eyes were fixed on Cyria, devoid of their usual playfulness. "I have agreed to uphold the agreement, Fox," Virelle said, her voice dropping into a register that made the glass on the table vibrate. "But I cannot promise my hand will not slip again if you do not pay more attention to the words you speak regarding my Master. Personally, I believe I am more than capable of destroying any force that attempts to take him away. This agreement exists solely for the sake of my Master’s peace of mind. Nothing more."

  Cyria watched her for a beat, then a slow, genuinely entertained grin spread across her lips. She reached up and smoothed a stray strand of hair that had been disturbed by the mana-heat. "Right. I’ll be more careful with my phrasing next time," she said, her molten-gold eyes sparkling.

  Pelka, meanwhile, was already sitting on the floor, her briefcase forgotten beside her as she shook with visible fear.

  Aiven looked at Virelle, the words of a reprimand dying in his throat. Given the terrifying seriousness in her expression and the cold pressure in the room, he realized that pushing her further right now was a bad idea. He stayed silent.

  Cyria sat back down, tapping a finger against the marble desk. "This concludes the briefing. You are free to leave. The upgraded arm will be ready by tomorrow noon, and we depart for the islet at dawn the day after."

  Aiven stood up, feeling the need to get out of the high-tension office. He looked at Virelle, his voice a quiet anchor. "Come on, Virelle. Let's go grab some snacks."

  "Snacks?" Virelle’s theatricality returned in an instant, her violet eyes blinking as she smoothed her skirts. "Very well, Master. I suppose I can tolerate a small culinary excursion to settle my nerves."

  She floated toward the exit alongside him, but as she passed through the doorway, she threw one final, sharp glance back at Cyria. The CEO didn't look away; she simply responded with a knowing, mischievous smile.

  The doors shut, leaving the office in a heavy, charged silence.