Dane heard silence on the tenth floor. Signs of civilization abandoned stretched over the camp. The barracks were repurposed to accommodate the swelling population of the liberated slaves, but now they were hauntingly quiet.

  He gave Ada and Amelia their message and mission 8 years ago, but it had only been six months for them. Time dilation grew as one went further into the Heart of the Dungeon. Dane had resupplied once a year, but was shocked to find that the interval between his visits had decreased each year. Dane still felt like an outsider in his own Castle.

  Ada refusing to speak to him was one thing, but she just brushed him off, even when it was about the mission. He wished that he had someone to talk to about this. He had only been in one relationship and had messed everything up royally.

  She was now far from the healer he had once known. The Earthbound System stopped distributing healing skills and classes, and she was forcibly transformed into the battle mage she now was. Dane didn't have to talk to her to know that she blamed him. For all he knew, it might have been his fault. He hadn't been the most supportive of healers when he and Dia were bonded; who was to say that the system didn't pick up some of his opinions?

  Amelia was too focused on the mission that he might as well have been talking to a dungeon stone if it wasn't about the ongoing war. He knew that this was what he had asked for, but it still cut him deeply. After eight solitary years of working through his feelings, he knew it was unfair to expect the same from either of them.

  Dane didn't bother with anybody else in the camp; he was a man with a singular purpose, and that was to clear the dungeon. He felt the presence of Dia's father watching his every movement, especially when he was deep in the dungeon. He needed to meet the man one last time; he needed more power for the System.

  Dane hovered over the Telepad and selected the fifth floor. "They sure are moving fast. I could probably clear the 50th before they finished. I guess I should be there when we secure the first and then clear the higher floors." Dane delegated all of the responsibility to the only two people he trusted in the world. They were making something he never could have imagined. His fist tightened with guilt and anger as the familiar crackle of mana diffusing in the air hummed.

  Two spear tips poked at his neck, and he had to work hard not to lash out at the two that held the cold steel on him.

  "That's the boss, you twit. Lower your weapon before the witch melts your brain."

  "I'm sorry, I had no idea that he was the Commander. He looks like a hobo, and he smells worse."

  "Use your analyze, you dunce."

  Dane found the interaction genuine and human. As they grew nearer to pushing the empire out of the dungeon, the liberated Army had grown not just in size since the last time he did a supply run, but in spirit.

  "Can either of you point me to a blacksmith. I need some new armor." Dane waved his hand over his tattered clothing

  "Sure thing, m'lord, go down towards the Barracks and make a left towards the old slave quarters. You will find everything that you need."

  "Just Dane is fine, and thank you."

  Both guards looked at each other, neither of them daring to breathe, much less call their lord anything less.

  Dane walked off in the direction that they had pointed before things grew even more annoying. He wasn't even involved in his budding nation at all. So when he was called lord, he felt like the praise and even worship sometimes weren't earned.

  He made his way down to the old slave huts and saw a small city sprawling where once only meager rations and pickaxe repair used to be. Food carts were wafting their aromas like one of the cartoons where the smell would lift the dog right to some freshly made pie. He found himself in front of one of the hot dog carts. The 9th floor was a floor entirely made of swine. The carcasses would fetch a pretty penny, but with the boars, many of the pig products that lined county fairs also found their way to base camp.

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  "Can I have two hot dogs?" Dane asked eagerly.

  "That'll be two ration cards."

  "What do you mean, two ration cards?" Dane asked bewildered

  "Yeah, yeah, two ration cards. I know it's a bit high, but food has been scarce since we took this new floor and lost a good number of the hunters."

  "No, I don't mean the price is high. I don't know what a ration card is."

  "Have you been living under a rock?" The stall vendor, now the one bewildered, asked.

  "I wouldn't say that, but I have been away for quite some time."

  "Well, ration cards are the currency we use now. The top brass hands out all kinds of different goods based on the cards. Ration cards are used to buy food. Craft cards will purchase anything that an artisan makes, and the last ones are Honor cards. They are used for anything else. I will be happy to trade you some ration cards, but exchange is frowned upon."

  "I am hungry. Can I buy one of these dogs on credit and come back?"

  "Listen, pal, I would love to, but even that kid that runs the joint ain't getting no handouts. I am under strict rules from the Bank Guild not to give anything out for free, something about supply and demand nonsense."

  "Now would you please get out of line if you ain't gonna purchase anything. I have customers to attend to."

  Dane looked back at the ghost town behind and raised an eyebrow at the man.

  The tent he still called home sat nestled in the heart of the makeshift village. It was a battered structure stitched together with spell-thread, reinforced canvas, and too many memories. It wasn't the largest shelter anymore, nor the most secure, but it was his, and the faint hum of the wards etched along its seams still recognized him even when no one else did.

  He moved toward it with the steady gait of a man weighed by more than the day's work, his thoughts folding inward, drawn into the quiet rhythm of inventory, system readouts, and solitary routines.

  Suddenly, laughter and shouting spilled through the narrow alley between two merchant stalls and rolled across the dirt street like a wave. Dane slowed, glanced left, not from curiosity, but instinct, the kind that had him checking the shadows twice.

  Atop a makeshift table stood a figure who looked like he'd survived a fight with a whole floor of dungeon guards and came out on top.

  Short, sturdy, broad-shouldered, with brown hair pulled back in a loose man bun, Jason Neil owned the moment. His leather vest was stained with grease and soot; his hands were rough from years underground, his eyes gleaming with mischievous pride.

  "...and I swear on my pickaxe," Jason shouted, slamming a tankard down with a thud that echoed off the walls, "the sabotage on the fifth floor was something else! Guards were scrambling, traps going off all over the place. I had to dodge two assassins and a patrol that hit us like a freight train. It was pure chaos."

  The crowd roared, hanging on every word.

  Dane's expression didn't change. The fifth floor? He hadn't even known about it. His own battles stretched across other floors.

  Jason grinned wider. "But hey, you gotta love the thrill. Patch your gear with duct tape and magic, pray for a miracle, and keep moving. I just hit E rank, baby. You don't get that far without a few scars."

  The noise from the crowd rolled over the cobbles like a wave, but Dane barely registered it, just another distraction to ignore, another excuse to stay buried in thought. He turned toward his tent, already retreating inward.

  Then came the voice.

  "Behold," it rang out, loud and theatrical, "Jason Neil the glorious bastard is at your service to liberate your evening from the jaws of boredom."

  Dane stopped mid-step.

  A moment later, Jason dropped down from his makeshift stage and crossed the distance with the confidence of someone who thought introductions were a performance art.

  "I've seen that look before," he said, nodding at Dane. "That's the look of a man who thinks he's too busy saving the world to grab a drink. Good news tonight, I'm saving the world. I'm buying the first round."

  Dane arched an eyebrow, the faintest flicker of amusement breaking through the fog.

  Jason grinned like he'd won a bet. "C'mon, man. Just one night. You've earned it unless, of course, you're planning to stand here all evening brooding like a disappointed statue."

  Dane exhaled slowly. Not quite a sigh. Not quite in agreement. But he didn't turn away.

  "That's what I thought," Jason said. "The tavern two tents down makes a drink that tastes like melted regret and bad decisions. It's the best thing on this floor. Here, splash on some of this Crystal Wash first. You can't show up looking like you just crawled out of a mana beast's digestive tract. You're not some silver-ranker from Pallimustus."

  Dane uncorked the vial, letting the wash ripple down his arms in a shimmer of mint and mana. "If I start monologuing about friendship and personal growth, put me down."

  And just like that, his mood had improved.