Is It Wrong to Try to Pick Up Girls in a Dungeon? On the Side: Sword Oratoria, Vol. 8

by Fujino Omori, Kiyotaka Haimura

  She was really grating on his nerves now. She and those eyes that could read him like a book. In fact, she was quite possibly the last person on earth he would have wanted to see right now.

  As she looked at him with those slit-like scarlet eyes, he felt something stir in his memories. They were the same—her eyes and Víðarr’s.

  “…Looks like you went and got yerself hurt again.”

  Something snapped inside Bete at those words.

  With an almost audible crack, he felt his blood rush straight to his head.

  And before he knew it, he was shouting.

  “Stop actin’ like you understand anything about me at all!!”

  “…”

  “Hurt? Who’s hurt, huh? The only person I’m pissed at is me!”

  “…”

  “Those Evils bastards did me over real good, yeah? Me, the one who’s normally kickin’ around the other weaklings, laughin’ it up. But I’m nothin’ but a piece of fish bait myself! I’m a disgrace!!” His words came pouring out, all the pent-up emotion inside him released like a bomb with his silent goddess in the blast zone. His hand tightened around the bag, knuckles white from fury. “I’m not strong enough! Not powerful enough! I need to get stronger! Much, much stronger—than anyone else!!”

  His words were true.

  However, he’d left out one piece.

  The motivation behind his quest for power. The true form of his unquenchable thirst.

  Even he himself pretended not to realize the true target of his emotions, instead baring to the world nothing but his fang—the fang of a raging, starving wolf.

  “…Kinda sad, innit?”

  But none of that mattered in the face of his goddess.

  The howl of a wolf that sent shivers down the spines of those weaker than him meant nothing to her, who could see straight through his Status, the symbol carved into his back.

  Loki stepped forward silently, bringing her hands to Bete’s face even as he stared at her, breath ragged.

  “That this is what it takes for you to get stronger,” she murmured, tracing the distorted tattoo, the fang, on his cheek.

  Between them, the cold rain continued to fall. Light from the magic-stone lanterns illuminated their faces, their shadows stretching out across the stone below. For just a moment, the two shadows formed a single silhouette: that of a happy trickster comforting her world-condemning wolf.

  “Gngh…!”

  But it was not to last, and Bete batted her away with what little strength he had remaining.

  He stepped past her, fully prepared to keep on walking.

  Almost as though running away.

  “You know, Bete. Víðarr told me a little bit about you,” Loki said simply, not even turning around as Bete walked away.

  Bete’s feet came to a halt.

  “Even bein’ from the same place up in Heaven ’n’ all, he and I never really saw eye to eye. Completely unapproachable, that one. Everything went over his head.”

  “…”

  “Which is why I never really took to heart what he told me when I ran into him in the pub that one night, drunk as he was and gettin’ all mushy…”

  —There’s a certain rambunctious wolf under my care.

  —But I worry that staying with me, staying with my familia, will end up killing him.

  —If ever he were to escape from my grasp, would you look out for him, Loki?

  Víðarr’s words in Loki’s voice echoed in the rain.

  Bete clenched his teeth, then simply kept on walking, leaving the words of his god—all but his father—behind him.

  Loki watched his back disappear into the rain before accosting him one last time.

  “Have you figured out what that fang of yours means, Bete?”

  —But he’d already figured that out long, long ago.

  Meeting them was probably fate.

  Making enemies left and right, drinking and fighting through the night, the familia-less Bete happened upon a number of unfamiliar faces one night in his usual pub.

  Loki Familia.

  The city’s greatest familia, it, along with Freya Familia, had been on a race toward the top ever since Bete had stepped foot in Orario all those years ago. And they were here now, seemingly celebrating a successful expedition in the Dungeon, all of them laughing, having fun, and extolling one another’s valor in their endeavors. Bete watched them for a while in silence before, in typical fashion, he began his tirade.

  “Heh, what kinda adventure can a bunch of wusses have, huh? Don’t make me laugh! You guys’d be nothin’ but a bunch of big ol’ roadblocks for the real adventurers!”

  Loki Familia had been quick to respond. With their god present, they’d tried to stick it out for a while, but the more of Bete’s abuse they took, the more irate they became, until finally, they’d had enough, the whole lot of them moving in on the werewolf. Bete responded with a kick that sent all of them to the floor.

  “Bwa-ha-ha! What a crazy wolf! All by yer little lonesome, yet ya fight like you’ve got a whole army behind ya. What a kook!” came the voice of their vermilion-haired goddess, now ogling Bete in amusement. Her narrowed eyes opened just slightly as she gulped down the rest of her drink.

  Bete could feel the others staring at him—a boy clearly unfit for battle, a dark-haired catgirl eyeing him in awe, and a golden-haired, golden-eyed girl who didn’t seem to care one single bit. He couldn’t help but be disappointed that Loki Familia would turn out to be nothing more than this. Only, before he could even finish his thought.

  He was blown away.

  The fist that hit him full-force sent him flying all the way across the room.

  “Yer spoilin’ our drink, boy. So why don’t ye just keep yer yap shut?”

  Bete looked up from the table he’d slammed into to see a dwarven soldier staring down at him.

  “Indeed. Quite the smart words for someone who is, themselves, nothing but a craven pup.”

  The voice came from a high elf mage this time.

  “While your words don’t seem of genuine arrogance…I must admit, the desperation is more than a little amusing.”

  And the next, from a smiling prum warrior.

  They made up Loki Familia’s elites, its strongest team of fighters. And a set of first-tier adventurers whose fame he’d been hearing of nonstop since arriving in Orario.

  Sitting in the face of the truly strong, Bete first balked. Then smiled. Then raged.

  He leaped to his feet with a furious shout, abandoning himself to the furor racing through his body like wildfire. Only to be brought down single-handedly by the dwarf.

  Again and again, he was slammed into the floor before rising to his feet, stubbornly refusing to learn his lesson, and getting sent straight back on his hindquarters. The rest of Loki Familia watched the violence in white-faced shock. The dwarf he’d first exchanged punches with—Gareth Landrock—went above and beyond even their wildest imaginations, now a veritable monster in the way he was attacking Bete, seemingly intent on smashing the werewolf’s unwarranted conceit into a thousand pieces.

  Finally, unable to take it any longer, Bete collapsed to the floor.

  He didn’t move. His hand was clenched so tightly into a fist, it was trembling, its gray fur standing on end. It was a sight that reminded Bete of the many weaklings he himself had sent to the floor, reveling in their humiliation. But now he was the one tasting the cold, hard ground, a flavor he’d not experienced in quite some time.

  —I found ’em. I finally found ’em.

  —The crazy-strong punks I’ve been lookin’ for.

  Even as he lay there on the ground, a smile began to form on his face while Finn, Riveria, and Gareth watched him from above.

  And then he howled. But it was no longer the howl of the strong. No, he’d become the weak.

  Finn and the others looking on in bewilderment, he rose to his feet, charging toward the Loki Familia adventurers only to be sent flying one last time, his strength f
inally depleted.

  Still, Bete smiled.

  Even as the anger continued to course through him with such force it sent shivers down his body, he whispered a silent word of thanks for this fated meeting: He’d finally found someone stronger than him.

  Having witnessed the entire affair, Loki promptly scouted Bete.

  The astute leader, the eccentric mage, and the ridiculously powerful dwarven warrior who had beaten Bete to a pulp—all three of them knew their strengths and weaknesses, using them to their advantage as they faced off against adventure. What’s more, not a one of them was accepting of those who didn’t get stronger, and the rest of Loki Familia’s members did everything they could to meet those expectations.

  This is where I need to be, Bete thought, finally having found a place where he felt comfortable settling down.

  Though even after he was officially inducted, he remained a loner. Making no attempt to mingle with the rest of the familia, he continued his crude tirades of insults, pushing away his new colleagues and instigating almost daily fights with Riveria. About the only contact he had with anyone besides Finn and the other elites was Raul, and even that was only because the poor boy had gotten the short end of the stick as the familia liaison, barely able to talk to Bete without sweating despite the fact that they were almost the same age.

  As for Bete, well, he challenged Gareth every chance he got:

  “Tenacious little bastard, ain’t ya?”

  Bete would always hear this before getting his ass solidly handed to him. It didn’t take long for Bete to become recognized as the token “belligerent werewolf” of the familia.

  It wasn’t until the grueling expeditions in the Dungeon that Bete’s relationship with the rest of the familia improved. While the harsh conditions didn’t put an end to his altercations with Riveria—the wolf was constantly dashing out ahead of the group on his own—there was something assuring about the sight of him up ahead that calmed the nerves of the rest of the familia behind him. It was around this time that his colleagues began viewing him and his abusive diatribes with awe and aspiration rather than fear as Bete quickly forged his way to Level 4.

  It was during these treks to the Dungeon, Bete in the lead as they fought tooth and nail against whatever surprises awaited, that he, too, began to reevaluate his colleagues—Raul, Anakity, and all the others. Seeing their faces stained with blood and dirt, hearing their determined cries of war, reminded him of the beloved tribe he’d lost long ago.

  —They may be chumps, but they ain’t short on guts.

  They were ridiculously stubborn in the way they kept on fighting until the bitter end, the very picture of adventurers. And the reason they could? Because they had complete and utter faith in the voice that was guiding them. To think that a leader would have this much influence on those who followed—though Bete would never say it, even he had to acknowledge the greatness of Finn and the others.

  Even still, casualties were unavoidable.

  Though Bete and the other stronger adventurers were able to escape by the skin of their teeth most of the pinches they got themselves into, the weaker ones weren’t so lucky. The Dungeon was constantly filled with the wails of the weak. Just one more thing that ground on Bete’s nerves.

  Which was perhaps why that girl became a sort of savior to him.

  Aiz Wallenstein.

  A golden-haired, golden-eyed beauty of only ten years. Bete had originally looked down on her as he did everyone else, only to have his words stolen from him after watching the ferocious way she fought.

  Her practically emotionless features might as well have been those of a doll.

  And though they were just about polar opposites when it came to temperament, Bete imagined his younger sister would have looked something like her if she were still alive.

  That long golden hair.

  Even more vibrant than that of the girl from his youth.

  That relentless spirit, yearning to grow stronger.

  So familiar to when she had loved him and strived to follow in his footsteps.

  Aiz had been like a sister to him back then. And though he’d berated her for charging headlong into incoming swarms of monsters—“Pot calling the kettle black, are we?” Riveria had pointed out—he’d taken to her immediately. The stronger she grew, the less she needed saving and the more the crazy thought inside Bete’s head grew: If only she had been that girl back then. It was a stupid, selfish wish, and Bete felt ashamed for even thinking it. Still, as Aiz grew, changing from a girl into a woman, he became even more lost, until, before he realized it, he was falling for her. That profile of hers, visible from his spot a few paces behind, just looked so much like hers, the girl he’d once loved so much.

  But there was one difference between Aiz and that girl.

  Aiz was strong.

  Stronger than any woman he’d ever known. Any person he’d ever known. Once she invoked her magic, she surpassed even Bete, and if no one stopped her, she’d be rushing ahead, wiping out a whole throng of monsters single-handedly, her skills with a sword enough to make Bete swoon.

  No amount of power was enough for her.

  She craved it, even more wildly and recklessly than Bete.

  And while that aspect of her did nothing but make Loki, Finn, Riveria, Gareth, and the others fret, Bete wasn’t worried in the least. No, he approved of it.

  “Don’t you change a bit. You hear me, Aiz?”

  “…?”

  He still remembered their exchange that one night long ago. A night that Aiz had probably long since forgotten. Bete had approached her out in the manor’s courtyard, where she’d been impassively swinging her sword.

  “You’re strong. That’s all that matters, so…don’t you change.”

  It almost sounded like an appeal.

  A desperate, selfish request from the wolf who didn’t want to lose the fourth person in his life who’d ever meant anything to him.

  “No.”

  But Aiz wouldn’t have it.

  “…I need to be even stronger.”

  It was an answer that brought a smile to Bete’s face.

  He respected her more than anyone, this girl and her unparalleled strength.

  She was definitely his ideal woman.

  Someone strong. Who didn’t know the meaning of compromise. Who continued pushing forward, unforgiving of her own frailties. This created a sort of kinship between them, and Aiz became the closest to Bete in all of Loki Familia.

  —I hate weak women most of all.

  Those words had become somewhat of a mantra for him at this point, the armor protecting him from the pain of his past.

  But they didn’t work on Aiz.

  On the “Battle Princess,” who abandoned herself to combat.

  A woman like her wouldn’t…

  Almost subconsciously, Bete felt a kind of hope begin to build up inside him.

  Bete had been beaten down by the shortcomings of the weak too many times in the past to put any effort into women. Which was why he refused to let himself grow attached to anyone who wasn’t the ideal now.

  At some point, watching that girl grow stronger, their fierce competition raging on, became the one joy in his life.

  Loki Familia’s roster was constantly changing. One year after Bete joined saw the induction of Tiona and Tione and, a year after that, Lefiya. The rambunctious girls were always pestering Aiz, and as time passed, Aiz began to smile more often.

  Bete, on the other hand, was not at all happy with this more “mellowed-out” version of Aiz the newcomers were drawing out of her. Even if the changes were good for Aiz herself, Bete could feel the “ideal woman” he’d created in his head start to blur.

  He began lashing out, giving the girls grief, first as an extension of his selfish desire but later, simply out of jealousy. And Bete, too, even without realizing it, was starting to lose his edge.

  Accept it.

  It’s not a bad thing.

  This isn’t like before, wh
ere you prided yourself as a lone wolf.

  The fang on his cheek, the pain in his chest—they were disappearing.

  However.

  “—Probably looked as pathetic as you do right now, huh? Like your precious little kitty just died or somethin’?!”

  Valletta’s shrill voice rung in his ears.

  It wasn’t only Leene’s face that weighed on his heart. It was Lena’s, too.

  Bete brought a hand to his cheek, fingers digging into his skin.

  “Haaah? Finn and his cronies have set up camp in the sewers, have they?”

  Back in the restoration zone of the Pleasure Quarter, a number of figures continued to prowl about the now deserted ruins, melding into the shadows and rain—Valletta and her crew of assassins. They’d set up temporary camp in Belit Babili, the grandest of the quarter’s structures. After hearing the news from one of the Thanatos Familia patrols, Valletta curled her lip in disgust.

  “Yes, ma’am! It seems they also have sentries posted on Daedalus Street…and in Babel Tower.”

  “That obnoxious little mouse! Should have known he’d already be on top of things…So he plans on keeping us from returning to Knossos? Then…he’s after our key?” she mused, pulling out the magic item in question, a small orb engraved with the letter D, from her fur-lined overcoat.

  True to Loki Familia’s hypothesis, Valletta and the rest of her assassins had been using the sewerway beneath the city to move around. It was also how they’d arrived at the Pleasure Quarter, where they’d set up base now. By putting men there, on Daedalus Street and in Babel, they’d effectively cut off every one of their escape routes back to Knossos.

  Valletta cursed in annoyance, then gave a voracious smile.

  “Then they don’t care about all the Amazons we’re slicin’ to pieces? He-he-he…This is just like during the Twenty-Seventh-Floor Nightmare. How many people you gonna sacrifice, huh, Finn? And all without batting an eye…!”

  “Wh-what should we do, Lady Valletta?”

  “Oh, don’t get your panties in a twist! Thanatos and the rest of his guys are already at work as we speak, gettin’ ahold of Levis or whoever. And once that monster shows up, well, Finn can say bye-bye to this little net of his,” Valletta responded coolly despite her underlings’ growing panic. They simply had to be patient and wait for Levis and the others to cut a hole through Loki Familia’s web.