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 turned her attention from her fellow Evils to the hired assassins.

  “Hey! You guys about done cleanin’ things up yet?”

  “Yes, ma’am! Our comrades in arms have successfully wounded almost all targets with the cursed weapons. Though some were able to escape due to Loki Familia’s intervention, most of their leaders, at least, have been silenced…” the chieftain of the group explained, to which Valletta responded with a wave of her hand.

  “Good enough for me.”

  The number of people aware of the connection Ishtar had with Thanatos Familia was few, indeed. And those who knew of the key Ishtar possessed were even fewer—likely only those very close to the goddess. They shouldn’t need to worry about any of the remaining Berbera now gathered in Babel.

  The only thing Valletta hadn’t planned on was Dian Cecht Familia or, more specifically, Dea Saint. But it was ridiculous to think that she alone would be able to heal every one of the Amazons wounded by one of Barca’s cursed weapons. Which meant that today, almost all the Amazons had been killed—a thought that filled Valletta with sadistic joy.

  The sight of her, smiling viciously, was enough to make the rest of the Evils associates tremble.

  Valletta Grede.

  On the Guild’s blacklist now for six years, she bore the alias “Arachnia.”

  As a member of the Evils, she became intoxicated at the sight of blood, abandoning herself to the very cruelest of pleasures and reportedly responsible for the deaths of more adventurers than anyone else—a natural-born killer. Taking lives, for her, was the ultimate symbol of power, or at least that’s what she had asserted to her sworn enemy, Finn, in years past.

  The assassins in the room looked on in emotionless silence as she suddenly dropped her smile and lifted her head.

  “All that’s left is…Vanargand.”

  “What do you mean…?”

  “When we ran into him this morning with that Amazonian brat, he was clearly on his way to the palace. At a time like this? No way that’s a coincidence…” she hissed, the cogs clicking into place in her head. “He was definitely looking for the key. In fact, that little minx we killed might very well have given him some kinda clue—We need to take him down.”

  This announcement set the entire camp abuzz.

  “Vanargand probably wouldn’t seek help, would he…?”

  “As if! No way in hell that blockheaded mutt would go to his familia with his tail between his legs. If he’s got his sights set on revenge, he’s gonna carry it out himself…I know it. I am the one who massacred his cute little friends down in Knossos, after all, he-he-he-he-he.”

  Adventurers like him were all too easy to read, she added, her smile deepening.

  Even if the lone wolf, Vanargand, had any information on that key, he wasn’t going to keep it to himself; instead, he’d come straight to Valletta to settle the score. She could practically see him now, veins popping in his eyes as he marched his way toward them.

  “All right! I want y’all to do everything you can to find Vanargand—”

  But then something interrupted.

  The howl of a wolf off in the distance cut off Valletta’s words before she could finish.

  “…So he’s calling us out to play, is he?” She laughed, sliding her tongue across her smiling lips.

  The sound echoed throughout the entire city, masking even the steady sound of the rain.

  Humans and demi-humans looked up in surprise from inside their homes, wondering if they weren’t hearing thunder; the Guild members currently out managing the situation came to abrupt halts; and adventurers raced outside, gazes turned toward the sky. Every god in the city knew that something had started.

  The whole of Orario heard the howl of a wolf.

  “Is that…?”

  “It couldn’t be…!”

  Anakity and Raul murmured in surprise, both of them tasked with watching over the Amazons currently housed in Babel Tower.

  “He’s mad now.”

  “Aye. I’d reckon there’s no stoppin’ ’im now.”

  Loki and Gareth exchanged words from in front of the great white spire, both their eyes turned in the direction of the rain-filled clouds as the werewolf’s howl trembled against the sky.

  “Lady Riveria! Is that…?!”

  “Indeed. That would be Bete…It’s started, then, has it?”

  Riveria responded to Lefiya’s question from within the Dian Cecht Familia hospital, one eye closed as she confirmed the sound of Bete’s voice.

  “Ngh…?!”

  Aiz raced forward through the pouring rain in the direction of that lupine shriek, her feet speeding toward the Pleasure Quarter.

  And Bete, standing atop the roof of a dilapidated brothel.

  Looked toward the night sky, congested with clouds, and howled.

  He wanted to make sure those assassins hidden in the darkness knew exactly where he was.

  The battle was about to begin.

  And this howl, this furious roar of a werewolf, amber eyes red with rage, was its harbinger.

  CHAPTER 5

  BATTERED WOLF

  A scholar once said that there were three reasons why werewolves would howl.

  The first was to assert their dominance over the enemy.

  The second was to locate fellow companions who’d strayed from the pack.

  The third was to strengthen their bond with their own kind, conveying the depths of their souls by calling at the sky.

  According to Bete, however, these reasons were dead wrong, entirely missing the mark.

  Howling was an oath.

  When their throats trembled, they considered it a signal of their own readiness, carved into the heavens themselves.

  A promise of absolute will, devouring the sun, devouring the moon, devouring everything as they looked to the sky and the gods gazing down at them and met them eye to eye.

  Yes, all you had to do was howl.

  No matter what kind of plight you may find yourself in, no matter how much the enemy may beat you down, no matter how much your body may cry out in pain.

  Release the courage and the power built up inside you and make that pledge.

  You’d grow stronger, faster than the you of a mere one second earlier.

  Only then did you have the right to step onto the battlefield.

  The oath Bete had made now—was a pledge to hunt.

  To stain his claws and fangs a brilliant red.

  And he hurled that conviction all the way to the heavens. The shadow-choked sky trembled, almost as though frightened, and even the rain seemed to weaken in response to his call. In the split second of clarity, he saw a golden outline shimmering faintly through the sea of clouds.

  Bete’s lupine ears shot up straight atop his head, his gray fur standing on end like sharpened needles.

  It was time.

  They were here. Assassins drawn to his howled oath that was neither a show of force, nor a beacon for lost comrades, nor a shared bond between friends.

  They would be prey for his claws and fangs.

  He gazed out over the ruined city, amber eyes flashing.

  The assassins raced through the streets, melting into the surrounding darkness.

  They made not a sound, not even the pittering pat of the rainwater bouncing off their speeding forms, almost like living shadows as they glided forward. Black robes fluttering, they made their way toward the high-rise building sharpening into view between the cracks of the dilapidated brothels, drawn toward the howl of a wolf, still reverberating from atop a roof.

  As they approached, they drew cursed weapons from their robes—the sure-kill blades they’d been provided by the Evils. They been promised not only large sums of money for their work but these weapons, as well. More fatal than even the deadliest of poisons, such weapons would likely be beneficial to their familia of underground crime, allowing them to spill blood with even greater ease. Another step in changing the world for the better, or so the assassins beli
eved. Such teachings were drilled into their brainwashed minds since the days of their youth.

  The moment they arrived at the complex mesh of back roads, the thirty-something assassins dispersed. They would surround the building where their enemy stood. First-tier adventurer though he was, he could be taken down by only one hit from their cursed weapons, his death inevitable. A few sacrificial explosions of their own would do the trick. As would their synchronicity. And once he was injured, they would attack, as swift and sure as the early-summer rain, taking down the wolf in the process.

  Yes, they were certain of their victory. Only…

  …? The howl, it…?

  The unique pitch of the lupine cry seemed to change—and, in an instant, a foreboding chill washed over the group. It was almost as if the wail of searing fury had morphed into a sort of inhuman melody, as cold and merciless as the moon overhead. Those amber eyes seemed to be staring down at each one of them, even though they were scattered among the streets.

  All of a sudden, the wolf was gone.

  “?!”

  And in that moment came an agonized shriek from one of their kin.

  Killed. In less than an instant. By a set of fangs plunging onto the ruined streets.

  The silent flock of assassins didn’t have so much as a chance to tremble in shock before there was another scream, followed by the earsplitting roar of a wolf. Like thunder, it shrieked through the shadow, almost as though the previously hidden wolf was reasserting his presence.

  H-how…?

  How were they supposed to stop him like this?

  They needed to see through both sets of eyes: the hunter and the hunted.

  The werewolf had the years of experience in his tribe to rely upon, making him a natural-born hunter.

  What’s more, he had chosen the path of the adventurer in his quest for strength.

  But today, just today, Bete had forgone all that, reverting back to his roots and the wild wolf who lived inside him.

  —Their enemy was a true-blooded alpha wolf.

  For the first time, these supposedly emotionless magic bullets, these assassins who were trained to remain calm in even the direst of circumstances, found their breath coming with shudders of horror. The pinpricks on their skin were enough of a warning that this was a hunter more skilled than even them, and that thought gripped them with fear.

  “G​r​r​r​u​u​u​a​a​a​a​a​a​A​A​A​A​A​R​R​R​R​G​G​G​H​H​H!!”

  With each kill came another roar.

  A show of power. That he, the wolf, was here. And they were next. All of them. It was the howl of a starving wolf who couldn’t be stopped.

  Their reaction was immediate, all of them moving off on their own either in attempts to apprehend the wolf or to hide themselves from his attacks. But that just made them better targets; the gray-furred wolf was following their every move as though anticipating their actions, and one anguished shriek after another rent the air around them.

  The wolf’s nose was as keen as ever, seeking them out even through the rain and the residual smells of their fallen companions.

  It almost felt like their cursed weapons were an ill omen, the stench of blood simply too strong.

  The others…?!

  As the last scream ripped through the air, the leader of the group realized all too clearly that he was the only one who remained.

  He was the one who’d laid the final blow on that Amazonian girl.

  As the strongest of the hired assassins at Level 3, he’d thrust his blade in the brat’s soft abdomen even after most of his comrades had already fallen at the hand of her resistance. Though he hadn’t been able to stay and watch the light fade from her eyes thanks to the wolf running at full speed toward him, he’d been satisfied that they’d finished the job. Another necessary sacrifice to lead them into the new world. What had she said, he’d wondered, in those final moments before her death? Imagining it had left him with a darkened sense of accomplishment.

  But now that same cutthroat had gotten himself driven up against a cliff, surrounded on all sides by a sea of blood.

  It defied everything he knew. Using the darkness of night to take them out, that was their livelihood, what they were supposed to excel at, so how had their enemy flipped everything on its head? Just what was this wolf? Not an adventurer, not a hunter, no, something else, something much more fiendish, more repulsive.

  He didn’t even notice the way his hand was shaking, fingers curled around his cursed dagger in a grip of death.

  Sometimes, the unknown that so enchanted adventurers brought with it a feeling of excitement.

  Other times, it brought nothing but a deeply rooted sense of terror.

  The convoluted byroads circling like a labyrinth around him, the assassin chieftain made to escape. But then…

  “”

  His exit was cut short by a hand reaching out from one of the nearby alleyways, gripping him by the neck and pulling him into the darkness.

  “Guwaaaagh?!”

  His throat was crushed in an instant, the fingers curling around his windpipe like a jaw snapping shut, and his body was slammed to the ground. He hadn’t even had a chance to use his cursed weapon. His shoulder dislocated from the force, he dropped his dagger to the stones below.

  Groaning in pain, he tumbled across the street, picking up trash and dirt along the way. Then, his neck trembling in effort, he slowly raised his gaze.

  He saw, backdropped by the night sky and cutting a sharpened profile against the landscape of the back alley—the horrifying visage of a wolf.

  “Ah…gnnaah…khaaah…?!”

  One step, then another, the werewolf approached in complete silence, and the assassin chieftain quickly readied himself to take his own life.

  But suddenly, he found that he couldn’t. With his crushed throat, he wasn’t able to bite open the lethal chemical embedded in his teeth. And with his dislocated shoulder, he wasn’t able to so much as grip a weapon.

  The wolf’s metal boots came down on his cursed dagger, shattering it against the stone.

  Then, looking down into the revealed face of the assassin—the werewolf, Bete, spoke.

  “Howl for me.”

  Yes.

  That’s what he needed to do. Howl.

  Howl for the new world to come.

  But he couldn’t.

  And with those amber eyes as vivid and brilliant as the moon, an expression dripping with pure, unbridled bloodlust, Bete plunged the supposedly fearless assassin into the uttermost depths of despair.

  All that came from his fractured windpipe was a crackling whisper of dry air, almost like a broken flute.

  “If you can’t even do that—”

  The werewolf raised his arms, fangs gleaming a brilliant crimson red.

  And as the assassin experienced true guttural fear for the first time in his life, those claws came flying down at him.

  “—you don’t belong on the battlefield!”

  It was at that moment that he blacked out.

  “Hey, Finn, did…something happen? To Bete, I mean?” Tiona asked, Urga at her side.

  They were down in the Old Sewerway that sprawled out beneath the city. Finn had led a small party there to set up a sort of blockade to keep Valletta and the rest of her group from escaping back into Knossos.

  “Like, why he’s always going on…callin’ people fish bait…chumps…weaklings…Makin’ fun of people and stuff?”

  “Tiona…” her sister, Tione, murmured as she, the captain, and the rest of the group turned toward the younger Amazon at her question.

  Tiona had long been intrigued by why Bete acted the way he did, ever since she’d first met him, actually. But it was only now that she was finally trying to get an answer about her constant debate partner.

  As she and the rest of the group turned toward Finn, the prum captain stood in silence before finally throwing them a glance.

  “…Bete doesn’t talk about himself much.
Not even I know if something happened in his past,” he started, eyes turning in the direction of the flowing water underfoot, almost as though looking far, far beyond the sewer itself. “So what I can offer is only conjecture…”

  “He’s unbelievably socially inept.”

  Back in Dian Cecht Familia’s hospital.

  Riveria stared out the window at the slowly receding rain as she responded to the question posed by Lefiya and the other elves.

  “Socially…inept?”

  “Indeed. Disastrously so,” Riveria confirmed with a soft sigh. “Everything that boy says, the scorn, the ridicule, the extreme threads of logic he follows—he’s only trying to motivate people. To spur them on in the only way he knows how.”

  “Oh…”

  The words brought a memory to Lefiya’s mind.

  When she, Filvis, and Bete had been about to storm the twenty-fourth floor’s pantry, Bete had criticized her again and again and again, saying the young elf constantly required protection from the wolf.

  You satisfied like this? Havin’ to count on others ’cause you can’t protect yourself?

  As long as your magic’s the only useful thing you got, you’ll never be anything more than baggage.

  You are soft.

  She remembered how crestfallen she’d felt, biting her lip and pushing on in spite of his words. But then, he’d yelled that:

  Don’t admire the old hag, surpass her!

  “Surpass Riveria Ljos Alf.” That’s what he’d told her.

  That hadn’t been mere encouragement. That had been the true spirit of a wolf starved for power. Constantly irritated by the weaklings surrounding him, he tried to push them to stand up for themselves.

  “Bete’s words go far beyond what’s necessary. Harsh to the point of antipathy. Or perhaps…he believes that the only way to push others past their limits is to hurt them,” Riveria continued, eliciting surprise from the other elves, including Lefiya, just returning from the sea of her memories. “It got to the point once where Finn, Gareth, and I were forced to call him in for a talk. Though, thanks to Loki’s ‘help,’ there was a bit too much alcohol involved…” the high elf recalled, amusement dancing in her jade-colored eyes as though watching the scene play out in her mind.