Is It Wrong to Want Luxury in a Dungeon? [8]

The Fool’s Baptism

The War Shadow lunged.

Too fast.

Calista twisted, but her body wasn’t moving fast enough.

Her foot caught on loose stone.

She tripped.

Her weight pitched backward—the world tilting as she fell, arms flailing.

The War Shadow’s claws scythed through the air—right where her throat had been.

Her back slammed against the cold stone, pain jolting up her spine, the impact knocking the air from her lungs.

She had dodged.

Not because of skill. Not because of instinct.

But because she tripped.

She barely had time to breathe before the second War Shadow flickered forward.

Straight for her chest.

To kill her.

...

A candlelit room.

The scent of roses, perfume, and wine.

The soft hum of a waltz playing in the distance.

Laughter. Elegant, delicate, practiced.

A woman’s voice—light, melodic, tinged with something Calista had never noticed before.

Something off.

Something wrong.

Her lips moved, smiling as she spoke. She didn’t remember what she was saying, only that she had been smiling.

And that the woman across from her had been smiling back.

She was beautiful—delicate features, soft curls framing her face, eyes that shimmered like cut glass.

Too wide.

Too bright.

And Calista remembered thinking how lucky she was.

How wonderful it was to be adored.

How easy it was to be loved.

The woman took a step closer, closing the space between them.

"You're beautiful," she had whispered, voice breathless with devotion. "So perfect. So… untouchable."

Calista had laughed, tilting her head in that effortless way that had always made people stare.

She had never been untouchable.

That was the game, wasn’t it? To be wanted. To be admired.

To let people reach out, only to remind them they never truly could.

But this woman—

Her hands didn’t hesitate when they reached forward.

And for the first time, Calista had realized too late that she should have stepped back.

The pressure of fingers against her wrist—gentle at first.

Then tighter.

Too tight.

Something cold pressed against her stomach.

She looked down.

The blade was already inside her.

She hadn’t even felt it go in.

Her mouth parted—but no sound came out.

The pain came a second later, as the knife was ripped free.

Her vision blurred.

The woman was still smiling.

"Do you love me?" she whispered, voice trembling. She was crying.

Tears slipped down her cheeks, sparkling under the soft glow of candlelight.

Her hands were covered in red.

Calista couldn’t speak.

The knife plunged into her again.

And again.

And again.

She felt every single one.

She wasn’t supposed to feel them.

This wasn’t how things worked.

She had always been in control.

She had always been adored.

People didn’t hurt her.

They didn’t kill her.

This was—this was—

No.

No, no, no, no, no—

The woman was still speaking.

"I love you," she whispered. "I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you—"

The waltz was still playing. The world spun.

Calista’s knees buckled.

She collapsed against the woman’s shoulder, her hands weakly grasping at the blade, at the wrist, trying to stop it, trying to make it stop—

But the next stab never came.

Her body was too heavy.

She sank to the floor.

Warmth pooled around her. Silk soaked with red.

Her fingers twitched.

She tried to lift her head.

The woman knelt in front of her, still crying, still smiling, still looking at her like she was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

She reached forward, fingers brushing over Calista’s cheek.

She was saying something.

But Calista couldn’t hear it anymore.

The waltz was fading.

Her heartbeat was slowing.

Her breath shuddered.

And then—

Nothing.

She snapped back into her body.

The Dungeon was cold, damp, wrong.

The scent of blood and stone filled her nose.

Her own ragged breathing filled her ears.

Her body wasn’t moving.

She had already died once.

She had already died once.

She had already died once.

And she was about to die again.

Her vision swam.

The War Shadow was still lunging.

Its claws were inches from her chest.

She was seconds from feeling it sink into her.

Seconds from feeling the pain all over again.

Her body felt frozen.

Not because she couldn’t move.

Because she remembered.

Because she had already felt this before.

Because she knew—she knew, she knew, she knew—

She was just a girl.

She wasn’t special.

She wasn’t strong.

She had been born perfect. Beautiful. Effortlessly above the rest.

She had never struggled.

She had never been tested.

She had never fought for anything.

And now, here she was, in another world, another life—

And nothing had changed.

She wasn’t going to be the strongest.

She wasn’t going to be some legend.

She wasn’t Ais Wallenstein, or Ottar, or any of the people she had heard about at Loki Familia’s table.

She was going to die.

Not in glory.

Not in greatness.

She was going to die alone, bleeding out on the stone floor of a dungeon, just like she had bled out on that pristine floor in her past life.

She wasn’t even worth killing quickly.

Her chest tightened.

Her vision blurred.

She wanted to cry.

But even that wouldn’t change anything.

The War Shadow’s claws rushed toward her.

She was nothing.

She had always been nothing.

...

...

...

Calista’s scream tore through the cavern, raw and wretched.

It was not a battle cry.
It was not a declaration of strength.
It was the sound of a girl who had already died once.

And if she was going to die again—

Then she was taking these bastards with her.

Her body wasn’t moving fast enough.

She was still on the ground, sprawled out, her ribs screaming, her leg barely responding.

The War Shadow was right above her.

Its claws were already descending.

There was no time to get up.
No time to move.
No time to do anything.

So she didn’t.

She stopped trying to run.

She stopped trying to block.

She simply thrust her spear forward—straight into the War Shadow’s chest.

She didn’t care about technique.
She didn’t care about defense.
She didn’t care if she missed.

She just wanted to kill.

And in that moment—

Something answered.

Her vision flooded with white.

A sensation ignited inside her, deep in her gut—wild, volatile, unrestrained.

It burned, crackling through her veins like an unstoppable inferno, rising, climbing, devouring.

Her magic had never been used before.
Never been triggered.
Never even been known.

But now, in this moment of absolute desperation—

It roared to life.

The cavern detonated in light.

It was not fire.
It was not heat.
It was something else entirely.

White energy surged from her body, from her spear, from every inch of her being.

A blinding, holy eruption—unstable, unrefined, unyielding.

A wave of pure destructive force, white and gold, tinged with flickers of iridescence—

A celestial storm, too great for her body to contain.

The War Shadow didn’t get the chance to react.

The moment the tip of her spear touched its chest—

It was gone.

No sound.
No resistance.

Just erased.

It was as if it had never existed at all.

The explosion of magic did not stop.

It ripped outward in a shockwave, expanding from her in a violent burst of divine destruction.

The second War Shadow, still lunging, was caught mid-motion.

It had only a second to see its twin vanish—

Then the light consumed it, too.

Calista couldn’t see.

Everything was white.

Her body felt weightless.

Like something had taken hold of her, pulling at every inch of her soul, ripping her apart from the inside out.

Her blood boiled.
Her bones shook.

Her magic wasn’t controlled.

It was everything, all at once.

It wasn’t a spell.

It wasn’t a technique.

It was just power, unfiltered, unrestrained.

And her body was paying the price.

Her spear couldn’t take it.

The moment she poured everything into it—

It shattered.

The metal tip exploded into dust.

The shaft cracked, splintering, falling apart in her hands.

She barely noticed.

She barely felt anything at all.

The power kept surging—

Until there was nothing left to burn.

Until she was empty.

Then, suddenly—

Silence.

The light faded.

The cavern returned to darkness.

The Dungeon was still once more.

The War Shadows were gone.

Not dead.

Not defeated.

Gone.

Calista’s breath came in ragged gasps.

Her body was not responding.

Her fingers trembled against the remains of her broken spear.

Her vision was swimming, flickering, barely clinging to focus.

She had won.

But—

Her chest burned.

Not from magic.

Not from pain.

From emptiness.

Mind Down.

She had heard about it before.

She had read about it, heard adventurers mention it in passing.

When a mage overuses magic—when they push past their limits, when they empty everything they have—

Their bodies shut down.

Not just exhaustion.

Not just fatigue.

A complete and utter collapse.

She was feeling it now.

Her arms were too heavy to lift.
Her legs were too weak to move.

Even blinking felt impossible.

She had spent everything.

And now, she was paying the price...

But she was alive.

Calista lay there, sprawled across the cold stone, her body barely responding. Every muscle ached, her skin burned, and her lungs struggled to pull in air, but none of it felt real. The world was a blur, her vision swimming in and out of focus, but the one thing she knew for certain was that she was still breathing.

She was alive.

A hoarse, choked sound bubbled up from her throat. At first, she wasn’t sure what it was—just a ragged exhale, a shuddering gasp—but then it kept going, shaking in her chest, forcing its way out. A laugh.

A broken, breathless, utterly exhausted laugh.

It hurt. Gods, it hurt. Her ribs ached with every tremor, her throat felt raw, and her body screamed for her to stop, but she didn’t. She couldn't. The sound spilled out of her, uneven and hoarse, something between amusement and sheer disbelief. She had won. She had survived.

She wasn’t supposed to.

She wasn’t supposed to win.

She wasn’t supposed to be able to do that.

And yet, here she was, alive and breathing, while those things—those horrors that had toyed with her, treated her like she was nothing—were gone. Not dead. Not defeated. Gone. Erased from existence like they had never been there at all.

Her chest heaved as she tried to lift her arm, but the weight of her own body dragged her down, pinning her against the stone. She barely had the strength to roll onto her side, her limbs heavy, her thoughts slow. The spear in her hand—no, the remains of her spear—slid limply from her fingers, nothing more than shattered wood and a few splinters of metal. The weapon had been utterly destroyed, unable to withstand the force she had unleashed.

It should have been terrifying.

It should have shaken her to her core.

But all she could do was grin, her lips curling up in a mixture of triumph and delirium.

She was special.

She was powerful.

Her body might have been wrecked, her magic drained to nothing, her wounds still bleeding onto the cavern floor, but none of that mattered. The War Shadows were gone. She had done that.

A sharp, stabbing pain lanced through her side, pulling her back to reality. The blood loss was getting to her, her body growing colder by the second. She needed to move. She needed to get out of here.

Forcing herself up was hell. Her arms barely functioned, her legs refused to cooperate, and for a moment, she wasn’t sure she could even sit upright. But she grit her teeth, pushed through the agony, and dragged herself into a half-slumped, seated position. Her head swam, the world tilting dangerously, but she kept her focus on a single goal: leaving.

She had no idea how much time had passed. Minutes? Hours? It didn’t matter. What mattered was that she wasn’t dead, and she wasn’t about to let something as trivial as blood loss and total mana depletion keep her from walking out of this place.

With a trembling hand, she pressed against the stone wall, using it as leverage to pull herself upright. Her legs wobbled beneath her, nearly giving out, but she steadied herself, refusing to fall.

Step.

She took one, barely more than a stumble.

Another.

Pain flared in her calf, but she ignored it.

Her body screamed at her to stop, but she wouldn’t.

Because she wasn’t just some nameless adventurer.

She wasn’t just another corpse waiting to happen.

She was Calista Aldebrand.

And she would not be stopped.

She staggered forward, each movement slow, unsteady, but determined. The familiar tunnels stretched ahead of her, the exit so far away, but she kept moving. The pain didn’t matter. The blood didn’t matter. The fact that her body felt like it was shutting down entirely didn’t matter.

She had won.

And gods, that felt good.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, a whisper of doubt tried to claw its way forward.

That shouldn’t have happened.

That was too much.

That wasn’t normal.

She shoved the thoughts aside.

What did it matter? Power was power. She had it, and that was all that mattered.

She grinned, blood still dripping from the gashes across her body, and walked.

One step at a time.

Leaving behind a trail of crimson.

...

The Dungeon was quiet.

Too quiet.

Calista’s boots scraped against the stone as she staggered forward, each step leaving a fresh smear of crimson in her wake. The pain barely registered anymore—her body was running on fumes, the edges of her vision blurring, her limbs moving on sheer, stubborn will alone. She knew she was bleeding out. She knew she had maybe minutes before she collapsed entirely.

But none of that mattered.

The entrance wasn’t far now. She just had to keep walking.

Something nagged at the back of her mind. The cavern felt... wrong.

Not in the way the Dungeon normally did, with its shifting halls and the ever-present, eerie hum in the walls. This was different. The air was still, like the place itself was holding its breath. Like it was watching.

She didn’t see any monsters.

She should have.

There should have been kobolds, goblins, dungeon lizards—something.

But the tunnels were empty.

Her trail of blood stretched behind her, a dark red line across the stone, easy for anything to follow. Yet, nothing came.

Her grip tightened on the broken remains of her spear.

Something was off.

She glanced over her shoulder.

The bodies were gone.

Not the War Shadows—she had erased those completely. But the ones she had killed earlier. The goblins. The kobolds. The dungeon lizards.

They should have still been there.

She hadn’t carved out their magic stones.

Their corpses should have been rotting on the cavern floor, untouched, unmoved.

But there was nothing.

Just empty stone.

A chill crawled down her spine, but she didn’t stop walking.

She didn’t have time to care.

If the Dungeon wanted to play tricks on her, it could do so after she was out of this hellhole.

She exhaled, shaking her head, and kept moving.

---

Loki was not a patient goddess.

She was many things—brilliant, gorgeous, undeniably charming—but patient? Nah. That was Finn’s job.

Which was why, when she had been dragged out of her nice, cozy drinking spot in the manor by a frantic guard yelling something about Callie bleeding all over the damn place, her first reaction wasn’t worry.

It was pure, unfiltered exasperation.

"Of course she did," Loki muttered, stretching as she strolled toward the main entrance.

She wasn’t in a rush. The way the guard had been panicking, she already knew what to expect.

Rookie overestimates herself, does something stupid, gets the absolute shit kicked out of her, barely drags herself home.

Classic.

Happened all the time.

She had been waiting for this to happen with Callie. Hell, she had counted on it.

The girl had been strutting around like she was the next Sword Princess, throwing backhanded compliments like confetti, pissing off Bete in record time, and carrying herself like she had never failed at anything in her entire life.

That kind of overconfidence? Always led to something like this.

And Loki had planned to sit back and watch when it did, let her take her lumps, let her learn.

But then—

She stepped outside.

And froze.

"—The hell?"

Callie stood in the middle of the courtyard, barely upright, swaying like a stiff breeze could knock her over.

Blood soaked her entire torso.

It ran down her arms, dripped from her fingertips, pooled beneath her feet.

Her leather armor was shredded, hanging off her in useless, tattered strips. Her hands were empty—no weapon.

And yet, she was grinning.

Not the usual, smug, teasing smirk she always threw around.

This was different.

Wild. Unhinged. Too wide.

Loki took a slow step forward, sharp red eyes scanning every inch of her.

She had seen adventurers stumble back to the manor in bad shape before—plenty of them had gotten cocky, bitten off more than they could chew, dragged themselves home half-dead.

But this?

This wasn’t some reckless newbie who had just learned a lesson about the Dungeon.

This was something else entirely.

"Oi, Callie," Loki called, her voice light, casual. "What the hell did ya do this time?"

Calista lifted her head.

Her dark blue eyes were dazed, unfocused, barely holding onto consciousness.

Then, slowly, her lips curled into a lazy, lopsided grin.

"War… shadows…"

Her voice barely came out, rough and slurred, like her mouth wasn’t fully working.

Loki arched a brow. Oh?

Calista stumbled forward.

The guards moved to catch her, but she waved them off weakly, her arm hanging like dead weight.

She huffed a breathless laugh.

"Thought… they’d be worse…"

Her knees buckled.

Her body collapsed.

The guards lunged forward, catching her just before she hit the stone.

Loki’s stomach twisted.

Not from panic. She wasn’t worried.

She was confused.

That had not been the look of someone who had barely survived.

That had been the look of someone who won.

Alone.

Her gaze flickered over Callie’s ruined state. The sheer amount of blood. The emptiness in her hands where a weapon should be.

What the hell had she done?

Finn and Riveria were already approaching fast, their expressions shifting from concern to something much sharper the closer they got.

Gareth was on his feet, muttering something under his breath.

Bete, who had just come around the corner, took one look at her and swore.

And Loki?

Loki just stood there, hands still tucked in her pockets, staring down at the mess that had just dragged itself home.

Then, slowly, her lips curled into a grin.

"...Hah."

She exhaled, shaking her head, barely able to hold back her laughter.

"Ohhh, ya crazy little shit," she muttered.

Then she stepped forward, crouched down, and lightly flicked Callie’s forehead.

"Oi. Next time ya pull somethin’ this dumb, at least leave me a damn warning first."

---

A/N: IS CALLIE GONNA SURVIVE? oops i said callie instead of calista oopsieee FIND OUT IN THE NEXT EPISODE OF DRAGON BALL Z