Schedules aligned, we ran the dungeon for the first time in a while.
Standard members: me, Novem, Aria, Miranda, Clara, Poyo-Poyo, Porter.
Porter at center, Aria up front.
After several rounds of modification, Porter had thin pillars on the cargo bed and a roof.
Weather doesn’t apply in the dungeon.
But it kept the cargo safe from combat splash.
“Box-shape might be better?”
When I said I’d rather be sturdy than lightweight, Poyo-Poyo, hand on chin:
“Or — rather than deploying shields on the front, more offensive… add spikes and make Porter a ramming type? Punch through enemies and traps!”
Hearing it, I thought maybe for a moment, then shook my head.
A cargo-loaded Porter charging — if he got destroyed, ruin.
Clara, palm to forehead:
”…What if it harmed other adventurers? Absolutely not.”
The larger lantern attached to Porter, on the other hand, was good.
It cut mana drain.
Cost money instead.
A constantly-lit corridor was a problem — turning it off frequently wasn’t easy.
When Aria up front stopped, she signaled: enemies around the bend.
“A little quiet, please. I need to listen too.”
Novem walked beside Porter, Miranda on the other side.
Clara walked in front of Porter.
The rear was open, but the plan in a pinch was to take cover in Porter’s shadow.
That made sturdiness, again, valuable.
In a corridor of randomly-laid metal plates, footsteps came, just as Aria said.
I gave orders.
Different from before.
“Novem, prep magic. One hit, then Aria and I handle the rest. If any get past, Miranda protects the two. Poyo-Poyo, watch the rear.”
Stuck on rear-watch alone, Poyo-Poyo grumbled —
“Even in the dark I see clearly… numbers like that I’d clear instantly…”
— complaining.
I knew she could. But this run was about checking how far the current members could go.
Inserting Poyo-Poyo into B1–B5 combat ran counter to that. And —
“You fighting doesn’t make money.”
The Jewel agreed. Money-strict Fourth.
“Important. Going in alone costs money — that automaton crushing things lowers our take… haa, just hauling and pickup as a service would be more efficient earnings.”
The Fourth’s normal meant me running adventurers on Porter to destinations and back.
It made very good money.
Downward-bound adventurers got their loads hauled, sometimes rode for easy travel.
Returning ones got out from under heavy loads when exhausted; some rode back, much appreciated.
Both cut time, so a one-way out plus a one-way back could net gold.
(…Fourth’s normal — feels a bit different from mine.)
Not wrong, exactly. Just far from my notion of an adventurer.
Earning with Porter was fact, but it was a means, not the end.
The Fifth corrected him.
”…It isn’t your money, you miser.”
The Fourth back:
“Earnings matter! To live, you have to earn!”
Not wrong.
But the Sixth —
“Money’s for spending. Hoarding it badly — you can’t take it to the afterlife.”
Hoarding without skill in spending — meaningless.
In that sense, I’d like to be the kind who uses money well.
But the Fourth was disturbingly good at the quiet earn.
Find the line adventurers can pay, negotiate to a discount. By yielding visibly, end the day in profit.
While I was thinking it, monsters emerged from the corridor.
Metal-armed goblins, in the count Aria had warned of.
Novem, prepared —
“Fire Bullet!”
Several fireballs fired; the monsters flinched. Even with metal shielding, they were burned.
Aria and I moved up.
Aria, with the shorter spear, pushed her small shield forward to deflect their attacks and break their posture.
She drove the spear into the metal-armored sections.
Unlike before, no big sweeping swings.
(Easier to work with.)
Holding a sabre instead of a mace, I twisted to dodge a goblin’s swing and cut its neck.
The goblin sprayed blood and dropped, clanging. A goblin trying to slip between Aria and me — I drew with the left and severed its head.
“Ah…”
A blank sound. The goblin’s head hit the floor; blood spurted.
Blood spattered around.
Fortunately, only Aria and I were soiled.
Aria:
”…Hey — blood makes the floor slippery.”
She’d grown plenty tough.
In front of such a scene, her impression was the blood is slippery — she really had gotten used to it. — She wasn’t the noble lady Aria anymore, and that was a little sad.
“My bad. — No, really…”
To my complicated face, Aria looked puzzled.
“Why the weird face?”
After combat, Clara approached and stripped what was valuable from the goblins. Stripping tools were on Porter, so her own load was light.
The metal went straight into Porter’s bed.
Aria watched the surroundings; Miranda watched the rear.
I helped Clara and checked with Novem.
“Novem, you tired?”
Sorcerers spend stamina and willpower both. Controlling mana takes mental tax.
When a sorcerer is the party’s offensive pivot, always check — that’s the right move.
Conditions vary day to day, so the leader has to communicate.
I didn’t think one cast tired her, but Novem smiled.
“I’m fine, Lord Lyle.”
“Good… once the pickup’s done, we move.”
I had Novem skip the pickup. Clara and I finished and started moving.
Aria led again.
(Because Aria slipped quietly into watch role, I can have these conversations.)
Before, leaning on Skills, I’d had a vague sense of allies’ state.
That alone made conversation thin.
(Conversation… can’t keep saying I’m bad at it.)
I called to Clara too.
“Clara, the operation okay?”
“Yes. At a reasonable speed… — Stairs are tiring, though. Not needing to manage the light is helpful, but…”
She seemed dissatisfied with not being able to adjust the lantern herself.
(That’s a future task.)
To Miranda-san:
“You move well, Miranda-san.”
She smiled.
“Thank you. If that weren’t sarcasm, I’d be genuinely pleased.”
A dry laugh. With Miranda having spare capacity, last — Poyo-Poyo.
For some reason she was sulking.
The Second:
“This thing — sulking, for an automaton. What a pain.”
Probably unhappy not being used.
More expression than a person, somehow.
“Haa… you’ll work during break. Endure till then.”
Poyo-Poyo produced a frying pan and cooking gear.
“Leave it to me. From break-time cooking to bedtime, I’ll handle it perfectly!”
— I’m not expecting some grand meal in a dungeon.
But Poyo-Poyo went all-in for some reason.
“No — nothing that elaborate, please…”
While moving, I closed the conversations and kept eyes on the surroundings.
The rest spot was a reasonable size for one overnight.
No monsters around; we sat on the unloaded gear and ate.
Energetic Poyo-Poyo alone was prepping soup.
Toasting bread, putting ham in.
For a dungeon meal — luxurious. Normally it’s strong-flavored soup and packed bread. To cut load, you don’t bring tools for elaborate cooking.
But Porter could carry cookware and ingredients, so with few people, this kind of indulgence was possible.
Now: Miranda on watch.
Novem and Clara had finished eating and gone to sleep.
Poyo-Poyo had Miranda’s ingredients ready and was on standby — to serve her fresh.
To Aria, eating with me, I said:
”…The count.”
“Yes?”
“Coming this far, you miscalled the count only once.”
She panicked.
“T-that time was a late join! — Hey, you remembered? Petty man.”
She got angry. I said:
“No — just that one. Compared to a few months ago your movement was completely different… easier to fight alongside.”
She said:
”…I see. — My bad.”
She kept eating, looking a touch pleased. We chatted on and off after, and Aria slept first.
She used the most concentration during movement. I dropped her from rest-watch so she could prep for tomorrow.
When all were asleep, I muttered:
“Difference from before — huge. Numbers help too, probably.”
Poyo-Poyo:
“Monologuing? Lonely guy. — I’ll listen. Any worry, consult. I’ll turn it into material to tease you with.”
“Not delighted by that?”
I sat back on the crate and talked. Less consultation than confirmation. — Self-confirmation.
“The last run was awful. Aria almost cried, I troubled Clara. — Novem could decide for herself, but I tried to micromanage her… and it all spun out.”
Poyo-Poyo:
“You’ve grown, chicken-bastard. From today I’ll call you chick-bastard.”
“Hey — that’s not growth. What’s chick.”
I looked at the three sleeping and Miranda-san. I was now the backup on watch.
Reading my gaze as lewd, Poyo-Poyo:
“Getting hot in a place like this… honestly, men…”
“Don’t twist it. — And why are you trying to take your clothes off? If you’re sleepy, sleep. I’ll smack you awake later.”
“Tch. As expected of chicken-bastard — even at my flashes, that timid attitude… hmph, someday I’ll have you embrace me.”
“Shall I choke you out? Sleep already.”
To which Poyo-Poyo went no-no, I want to hear more, swinging her twin-tails.
…Cute face, totally not matching the act.
“Today went well. Issues, sure — but as Clara said, basically everyone’s capable.”
Poyo-Poyo agreed.
“While I worked the Porter business, I saw other adventurers… — yes, individually they all move well. As parties — squads — it falls off fast.”
For now everyone was just doing their own job.
Party coordination doesn’t polish quickly. Movement and judgment differ per person.
You confirm party coordination over many runs, and the party gradually completes.
“Yeah. I talked with a few leaders. Each one said it’s less about ability and more about whether you click — gut feeling.”
Through Porter-hauling, I’d made a sudden flood of acquaintances among Aramsus adventurers.
Conversation during movement, observing other parties — good.
Different parties had different styles. The ones holding the basics felt the more capable.
I’d done it to learn Porter operation, but unexpectedly I’d made many connections in Aramsus.
Being called piggybacked Lyle by many made me wry-smile, but that too is adventurers’ envy.
A proper, cool epithet goes to the gruff, respected, or feared.
For me, too young, not there.
But the topic helped conversation flow. I’m not strong at talking, but one or two such hooks made communication easier.
(Thinking like that — not all bad… piggybacked.)
Adventurers, hearing I was surrounded by beauties and cared for, were apparently dissatisfied.
That we’d cleared B40 thanks to Damian’s dolls — a view I’d heard around. — Actually accurate.
On the boss I’d worked hard, but elsewhere the dolls had taken shield-role and saved us.
I looked at Porter.
”…Porter’s a fine companion too.”
Poyo-Poyo:
“Crystallization of my and chicken-bastard’s love, after all. — And soon, my own name… not a provisional — please decide on a true one. — Losing to Porter is truly frustrating. The junk-mass-produced units are awful to me!”
I tilted my head.
“Are they saying that much to you? You’ve been giving as good as you got — not like the mass-produced, and so on.”
“This is what happens when looks fool you… they’re vile-mouthed, those things. Nothing compared to me! And me, chicken-bastard’s angel, am crying! Protect me more!”
I said:
“Crying — or just shrieking?”
Poyo-Poyo made a sad face and slumped to the floor.
She started a sad song. Surprisingly skilled, which startled me.
(She can really do all kinds of things… why fixate on maid?)
What ancients had built Poyo-Poyo for — I couldn’t fathom.