Is It Wrong to Want Luxury in a Dungeon? [2]

Welcome to Orario… Now Start Walking

The market hummed with life, a steady backdrop of bartering voices, shifting feet, and the occasional clang of metal striking metal. Scents of spiced meats, roasted nuts, and something vaguely sour mingled in the warm air, wrapping around the bustling street like an ever-present haze.

Calista strode through the crowd with practiced ease, her expression composed, her steps measured. She kept her chin lifted just enough to project confidence—poise, control, the effortless grace of someone who belonged wherever they chose to be. Even here, in a city pulled straight out of some medieval fantasy.

The small wooden booth stood exactly where she had spotted it earlier, tucked neatly near the edge of the thoroughfare. Unlike the ramshackle stalls overflowing with produce and trinkets, this one was orderly, clean. Purposeful.

More importantly, the man behind the counter looked official.

Perfect.

She adjusted her skirt as she approached, smoothing down the dust-streaked fabric with an idle flick of her fingers. No need to rush. Rushing implied urgency. Urgency invited assumptions—ones she had no interest in entertaining.

The women at the booth wrapped up their conversation, exchanging polite smiles before stepping away. The uniformed man sighed, rubbing the back of his neck before his gaze flicked to her.

A pause.

His eyes took her in—her tailored clothes, the way she carried herself, the quiet air of refinement that set her apart from the standard street-goers. Calculating. Was she a noble’s daughter? A merchant’s kin? Someone important?

Good.

She let him wonder.

She returned his neutral nod with a slight tilt of her head, her expression slipping into carefully crafted curiosity.

“Excuse me,” she began smoothly, keeping her tone light, pleasant. “You seem like someone who knows things. I was hoping to ask a few questions.”

A single brow lifted. His weight shifted, arms crossing over his chest. “That depends. What exactly do you need?”

She exhaled lightly, as if considering. “I just arrived and don’t know where to visit next. Any recommendations?”

He let out a short chuckle. “That depends on what you’re looking for. If you need supplies, the market’s your best bet. If you’re looking for work, head to the Guild at the Pantheon. You a sightseer? Plenty of famous spots—Colosseum, Tower of Babel, take your pick.”

Pantheon. Important-sounding name. Probably meant something grand.

She latched onto it. “The Guild? What do they do?”

“The Guild runs the city’s paperwork, adventurer records, trade permits, and all that boring stuff.” He waved a hand vaguely. “But if you’re new, it’s probably the best place to start.”

That sounds useful.

“And where is that?” she asked.

The man’s gaze lingered on her for half a second longer than necessary before he answered. “Follow this road north. You’ll pass an old, rundown church—keep going, and you’ll see the Pantheon up ahead. Biggest building in the area, looks special. Can’t miss it.”

She nodded, committing the directions to memory. “Appreciated.”

The man eyed her for a moment, then shook his head with a small chuckle. “You new types always stand out. Try not to get swindled on your way there.”

She offered a polite, knowing smile, dipping her head slightly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Turning on her heel, she let the conversation settle in her mind. Orario. The Guild. The Pantheon. The pieces were falling into place.

Now, it was time to see this Guild for herself.

...

Calista wove through the shifting crowd, her steps measured, her expression poised.

She kept her chin lifted, dark blue eyes flicking over the people she passed.

Most were ordinary. Traders and laborers clad in simple tunics, some lugging crates, others counting coin. But then there were the others—the ones who stood apart. Armed figures, weapons strapped to their backs, moving with an easy confidence that set them apart from the masses.

"Adventurer" records... 

Are these the adventurers he meant?

She barely had time to study them before the atmosphere shifted.

A ripple ran through the crowd, subtle but unmistakable. People slowed, some hesitating, others stepping back. The dull hum of conversation was cut through by a sharp, angry voice.

“I’m telling you, you cheated me!”

Calista’s gaze snapped forward.

Ahead, the street had formed an open pocket—onlookers hesitating at the edges, watching as two men stood locked in a heated argument.

The younger one was tall but wiry, dressed in worn leathers, a short sword strapped to his waist. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his face twisted with frustration. “You knew the drop was worth more, and you still—!”

“Oh, shut it.” The older man’s voice was flat, unimpressed. Broader, heavier, he stood with the confidence of someone who had nothing to prove. His armor was well-kept, his weapons polished and maintained. A veteran.

Calista didn’t miss the way he held himself—completely at ease, like the outcome of this argument was already decided.

“You took the deal, kid. That’s how things work. Next time, don’t be stupid.”

The wiry man's face flushed deeper. Then—without warning—he swung.

It was wild, untrained, a punch thrown out of pure emotion.

The broader man shifted.

Just… a step. A small, effortless sidestep.

The wiry man’s fist cut through empty air.

His balance wavered forward.

And with almost casual ease, the broader man placed a hand on his shoulder and shoved.

The impact sent the younger man stumbling back, his boots scraping against the stone as he barely caught himself before crashing into a bystander. A few gasps rippled through the crowd.

Calista’s breath caught.

That… wasn’t normal.

That wasn’t some Tibetan monk technique.

That was strength. Real, inhuman strength.

The kind that shouldn’t have belonged to someone who barely moved.

The wiry man scrambled upright, his humiliation evident. His hand twitched toward the hilt of his sword, the anger in his eyes shifting to something more dangerous—

A heavy thud of boots against stone.

“Enough.”

A single word, spoken in a tone that cut through the air.

The tension shifted instantly.

The crowd parted further as a group of uniformed enforcers stepped in. They weren’t rushed. They weren’t alarmed. They moved with the authority of people who knew no one would be stupid enough to challenge them.

One of them, a mountain of a man, barely had to lift a hand before the rookie stiffened. “No fighting in the streets,” the enforcer said, his tone bored, but edged with quiet authority. “Unless you’d like to spend the night in a cell.”

A heavy pause.

The wiry man grit his teeth—his pride clearly demanding he do something—but after a moment, he exhaled sharply and turned away.

The broader man smirked, tossing one last glance at him before disappearing into the dispersing crowd.

Just like that, the moment was over.

The tension faded. The people who had stopped to watch lost interest, slipping back into their usual rhythm of trade and chatter.

But Calista didn’t move.

She had expected people here to be strong.

But that?

That was something else.

That wasn’t just skill. That wasn’t human.

That was a different level of power.

Her grip tightened slightly against the folds of her skirt.

He looked like he was just some random adventurer, someone barely worth naming. Not even someone at the top.

How strong were the real elites?

How strong were the ones at the peak?

A sharp clarity settled in her chest, coiling around her thoughts like a vice.

She needed power.

Fast.

...

Calista kept moving, her steps steady, measured.

The road stretched ahead, leading her deeper into the city with no abrupt turns, no confusing detours. Simple. Direct. The kind of route designed for efficiency, guiding traffic exactly where it needed to go.

The market’s chaotic energy began to fade behind her. The densely packed stalls, the merchants shouting over one another, the constant ebb and flow of wandering shoppers—all of it thinned out, replaced by something calmer. More structured. The storefronts here were sturdier, built to last, with signs carefully maintained and entrances clean of dust and clutter.

The people changed, too.

No longer idle shoppers drifting between stalls. These were workers, traders, men carrying ledgers instead of baskets, their conversations quieter but no less intense. Less haggling, more calculation. Every step taken with purpose.

She adjusted her pace to match. Less wandering. More intent.

Then, something ahead caught her eye.

A weathered structure, half-hidden between newer buildings. Old. Forgotten. Out of place.

Vines crept up its walls, curling through cracks in the stone, swallowing what remained of its former grandeur. An arched window loomed above the entrance, its frame hollow where glass had once stood. Time had worn it down, left it behind while the rest of the city moved forward.

A church.

Or, at least, it had been one.

Calista’s steps slowed—just slightly—as she took it in.

Why was it still standing? Everything else in the area was well-kept, alive with purpose. But this? It had been abandoned, yet not demolished. Left to rot, yet not forgotten.

Respect? Negligence? Something else?

She let the thought pass. It wasn’t her concern.

She kept walking.

The buildings around her continued to shift, growing taller, more refined. Not lavish, not ostentatious—but solid. Stable. The kind of wealth that wasn’t for show, but for function. The air smelled different here. The scent of sizzling food and open fires faded, replaced by something sharper—parchment, ink, aged wood.

And then, finally—there it was.

The Guild Headquarters.

The Pantheon, as the official had called it.

It didn’t carry the overwhelming presence of what she assumed was the Tower of Babel, that monolithic spire that stretched toward the heavens. But it had its own weight, its own undeniable authority.

Stained-glass windows lined its upper walls, fragments of color catching the light in shifting patterns. The entrance stood framed by intricate stonework, the craftsmanship careful, deliberate—designed not to awe, but to impose. To command respect.

People moved in and out with fluid efficiency. Adventurers in armor. Officials in robes. Clerks carrying stacks of ledgers, scribes exchanging paperwork, merchants weighing coin purses with practiced hands. No one lingered. No wasted movement.

It wasn’t just important.

It was essential.

Calista exhaled slowly, adjusting the cuffs of her dust-streaked blouse.

No hesitation.

She strode forward, slipping into the flow of traffic.

It was time to see what the Guild had to offer.

Calista stepped through the entrance of the Guild, and the shift in atmosphere was immediate.

Her eyes swept the hall, taking in the structured order of it all.

Rows of wooden counters lined the space, clerks seated behind them as they handled adventurers and visitors with the same efficient detachment. Some conversations were quick—transactions made, forms signed, sealed, and done. Others dragged on, stacks of paperwork piling up between sighs and irritated expressions. A massive notice board dominated one side of the hall, layered with announcements, requests, and contracts, some hastily scrawled, others neatly printed with official seals.

She barely glanced at it.

None of those papers would mean anything to her yet.

Information. That was what mattered. And for that, she needed to speak to someone directly.

Her gaze drifted toward the reception desks.

Most of the clerks carried the same polished, bureaucratic demeanor—calm, efficient, distant. A few were friendlier, engaging in easy banter with adventurers, but most worked with the kind of detached patience that came from answering the same questions dozens of times a day.

Then, she spotted her.

A woman with long red hair and sharp golden eyes. A werewolf.

Even from a distance, there was something about her posture—straight-backed, composed, focused—that made it clear she wasn’t the type to entertain nonsense. She moved with crisp efficiency, eyes flicking between a ledger and the adventurer in front of her, listening without indulgence.

When the conversation ended, she stamped something onto a form and handed it over without a second glance, already shifting her focus to the next task.

Calista decided she liked that.

She moved forward, closing the distance just as the last person stepped away.

The werewolf barely looked up before addressing her.

“Next.”

Calista stepped forward with an easy, natural confidence, her hands resting lightly on the counter.

The woman’s eyes flicked toward her, a subtle once-over, barely noticeable, but Calista caught it.

That quiet, automatic assessment—she had seen it before. The way people in high places judged worth in a single glance, filing away unspoken conclusions before the first word was even spoken.

She let the moment stretch, offering only a small, pleasant smile.

Something in the werewolf’s expression shifted, just a fraction.

A quiet assumption forming.

“You lost?” The woman’s tone was clipped, efficient—not dismissive, but not accommodating either.

Calista tilted her head, playing into it just enough. “Not at all. I was hoping to ask a few questions.”

The werewolf exhaled through her nose—not quite a sigh, but close. Unimpressed, but not entirely unwilling.

She leaned forward slightly, forearms resting against the desk. “Alright.”

Calista kept her expression poised, measured. Let her make assumptions. It was always easier that way—people gave up more when they thought they already knew the answer.

She folded her hands neatly, tilting her head just so. “I was told the Guild is the place to start, but no one’s really explained what it actually does.”

A twitch of ears. A short exhale.

“Figures.”

The woman leaned back slightly, crossing her arms. “The Guild oversees everything related to the Dungeon. We track adventurers, process permits, handle resource management, and buy monster drop items and magic stones.”

Ah. So, it wasn’t just a registration office.

It ran Orario’s entire economy—or at least, the part tied to the Dungeon.

A small smirk tugged at the corner of Calista’s lips.

Now that was interesting.

Calista leaned casually against the counter, her fingers tapping an idle rhythm against the polished wood. “And what’s the best way to make money?” Her tone was light, conversational, as if she were asking about the weather.

The werewolf woman across from her gave a knowing look. Like she had heard that exact question a thousand times before. “That depends. Most people make their living off the Dungeon—either going in themselves or working with those who do.”

That word again. Dungeon.

It had come up before, but no one had actually explained it yet.

Before she could press, the woman continued, “There’s also trade work—smiths, apothecaries, craftsmen. You could get lucky and find a patron, but that’s its own kind of risk.”

Risk.

The word hung between them, unspoken implications laced through it.

Calista hummed, absorbing the information. “And if I wanted to go the adventurer route?”

The woman’s expression flattened slightly. “Then you’d need to join a Familia.”

A Familia?

She kept her face neutral. The official she’d spoken to earlier hadn’t mentioned this. She’d assumed adventurers were like mercenaries—independent, taking work as they pleased. But from the way she said it said it, that wasn’t the case at all.

“And what exactly is a Familia?” she asked, feigning mild curiosity.

The woman studied her for a long moment, then let out a sigh—the tired kind, like this was a conversation she had far too often. “A Familia is a group run by a god or goddess. They take in members, give them their blessing—the Falna—and in return, you work under them. Most adventurers are part of one.”

Calista blinked.

For a moment, she thought she misheard.

“…A god?”

The werewolf’s golden eyes flicked up, unimpressed. “Yes.”

“Like. An actual god?”

A sharp exhale. “Yes. There are dozens of them in Orario alone.”

Calista stared at her.

Not in disbelief—but in reevaluation.

She had expected this world to have some quirks—monsters, magic, the medieval aesthetic—but this was something else entirely. Gods weren’t just myths here. They weren’t distant figures sitting on golden thrones in some unreachable realm.

They were here. Walking the streets. Running businesses. Leading groups of adventurers like some kind of headhunting agency for the divine.

That changed everything.

She was silent for half a second too long.

The werewolf’s gaze sharpened, something flickering behind her eyes. “Don’t tell me—”

“I just hadn’t thought about it,” Calista cut in smoothly, pushing past the moment before she could dig deeper. “And the Falna?”

A pause. A half-second of hesitation. Then, she let it go. “It’s what lets adventurers grow stronger.” She tapped a finger against the counter. “Without it, you’re just another civilian.”

That was it.

Power here wasn’t just something you had. It was something given.

It wasn’t about talent alone. Strength was tied to the gods themselves. If you wanted to climb, you had to start with them.

Calista let the thought settle, her mind already mapping out possibilities.

The woman had already moved on, back to her usual unimpressed demeanor. But Calista wasn’t done.

“Then who are the strongest?”

Her eyebrow flicked up. “Strongest what?”

“Familias.”

There was a beat of reassessment.

She leaned back slightly, arms crossing over her chest. “Depends on who you ask. But most would say the Loki Familia and the Freya Familia.”

Calista’s fingers twitched slightly against the counter.

Those names she knew.

Loki. Freya. Not as gods she had ever worshipped, but as myths, as figures wrapped in legend.

Loki, the trickster. The one who wove mischief like a web.
Freya, the goddess of beauty and war. A ruler of fate and desire.

She had never been religious. Never paid much attention to those kinds of stories.

But if they were the ones at the top here, that meant something.

Her interest sharpened. “What makes them the strongest?”

“The Loki Familia has numbers,” the woman said. “They’re organized, well-trained, good teamwork. Some of the strongest adventurers in Orario are in their ranks.”

Formidable, then. But not untouchable.

“And the Freya Familia?”

Something shifted.

She exhaled slowly, almost like she didn’t want to get into it. “Freya’s different.”

Calista tilted her head slightly. “Different how?”

“They don’t just have strength.” The werewolf’s tone was quieter now. “They have power. The kind that’s not just about combat.”

Vague.

And vague usually meant dangerous.

Calista’s fingers drummed lightly against the counter. “And the strongest adventurer in Orario?”

The werewolf’s expression barely changed, but there was a small shift in her tone. “Ottar. The Freya Familia’s captain. He’s the only known Level 7 in the city.”

Level 7.

She hadn’t heard the term before, but she didn’t need an explanation. It was a ranking. A hierarchy.

A measure of power.

“You mentioned levels before,” she said. “How does that work?”

The werewolf gave her a mildly exasperated look, like she was already regretting indulging all these questions. But she answered anyway.

“Levels measure an adventurer’s strength and achievements. Everyone starts at Level 1, and through significant accomplishments and excelia—experience, basically—they can level up. But it’s rare. Most people stay Level 1 their entire lives.”

“…So Level 7 is—”

“The highest in Orario.” She tapped a finger against the counter. “And only one person holds that title.”

Ottar.

The Freya Familia’s captain.

The pinnacle of Orario’s strength.

Calista’s expression didn’t change. Neutral. Thoughtful. But in the back of her mind, she was already locking in her next move.

Find the Freya Familia. Get in.

She let the conversation lull for a moment before straightening slightly. “Alright. I think I have what I need.”

The werewolf didn’t look convinced. “Sure. Anything else?”

Calista smiled. “No, I think that’s everything.”

The woman shrugged. “Then you’re set. Whatever you decide, don’t expect things to go easy. Orario doesn’t slow down for people who can’t keep up.”

Calista’s smile widened. “I wouldn’t expect it to.”

She lingered just a second longer, tilting her head slightly. “By the way, darling, since we’ve had such a lovely chat—Calista Aldebrand. A pleasure.”

The werewolf didn’t even blink. “Rose Fannett. Now get out of my line.”

Calista laughed, soft and pleased, before turning away from the counter, stepping back into the steady flow of the Guild.

She turned away from the counter, stepping back into the steady flow of the Guild.

The clerks called out names, adventurers moved in and out, exchanging reports, selling monster drops.

She barely noticed them.

Because now, she had a plan.

Find the Freya Familia. Join them.

And if that didn’t work?

Pfft. As if.

...

Fifteen minutes later.

Calista stood before the Tower of Babel, arms crossed, staring at the entrance like she could will reality into correcting itself.

This had to be a joke.

Right?

They didn’t just reject her.

That didn’t happen to her.

And worse? She hadn’t even been rejected by Freya herself.

No.

She hadn’t even made it to the front door of an actual goddess before some glorified bouncer—some random, utterly unimportant gatekeeper—had the audacity to turn her away.

Calista scoffed, flipping her hair over one shoulder.

As if she was just going to accept that.

If they weren’t going to let her in here?

Fine. She’d just go directly to the Freya Familia’s estate instead.

Hmph. Let’s see them try to turn her away then.

Except.

As she stomped through the streets—head held high, shoulders squared, every step radiating sheer indignation—an unfortunate realization dawned on her.

…She had no idea where the Freya Familia actually was.

Calista stopped dead in her tracks.

Slowly, she turned back toward the Tower of Babel.

Looked up at it.

Then back at the city stretching out before her.

…Then back at the Tower.

For all her grand planning, she had somehow forgotten to ask the single most important logistical question.

Her jaw tensed.

...

Half an hour. A hundred side-eyes from passing pedestrians. And one blister forming on her heel later…

Calista finally reached the southernmost edge of Orario.

Hot. Irritated. And more done with life than she had ever been.

The towering estate before her was obnoxiously perfect—silver spires, delicate carvings, the kind of architecture that screamed superiority.

She hated it immediately.

Not because it wasn’t gorgeous. It was.

But because she had walked all this way… just to be rejected again.

A heavy sigh left her lips as she dramatically placed a hand on her hip.

She had walked all this way.

Just to be rejected. Again.

And now?

Now, she had to walk all the way back.

Her eye twitched.

If the next Familia she tried after all this walking rejected her too…

She was going to lose her damn mind.

---

A/N: AGAIN! uhhh i put tibetan monks because uhhh batman hehehehe i kept seeing it on tiktok and i thought it was funny, anyway AGAIN!!!!