"Branch Chief, are you really going?"
Kaina furrowed her brows into an inverted V, looking troubled. Gaark Velter snorted once at her.
His attire wasn't the same as what he usually wore while working at the Explorer's Guild Zeburdia branch.
Crimson armor covering only vital points to leave his limbs free to move, a spiked helm to protect his head — along with tools strapped at his waist for quickly pulling out potions and other supplies in emergencies, and a large hatchet useful for all sorts of purposes beyond combat — this was the equipment Gaark had used in his days as a Hunter, some of which still remained.
The armor and helm bore countless small scratches, testament to the innumerable battlefields they had passed through.
But what drew the eye most was the weapon gripped in his right hand — as tall as he was.
A spear-axe.
It was a peculiar spear-axe of a bluish-black hue. The axe head was remarkably large compared to the tip, designed as though meant for sweeping cuts.
There was a time, long before even the so-called "Transcendent Lifeforms" — who boasted of having experienced all of history — had come into existence, when those who loved both forging and battle thrived.
Those people refined their forging techniques over the course of their lives and developed unique arts to weave magical power into metal, creating entirely new materials.
As both war-loving and accomplished warriors, they used this technology to its fullest, producing many special weapons and armor, and repelling the calamities that befell them time and again, enjoying long-lasting prosperity.
Eons had passed, and now, of that former civilization, hardly a trace remained.
The technique for refining the special metals that had formed its backbone was lost to history. Many mages and smiths had attempted to recreate it, but not even a clue had been found.
—And yet, the products of that era were different.
Most of the weapon-type Treasure Weapons discovered in Treasure Halls today were believed to be reproductions of items created during that age — the Age of High Magical Weaponry.
Great swords that controlled flame. Blades that would never break, never bend, and were impossibly light. Lances that could cleave air and pierce through targets several meters away.
They were ancient legacies — still threatening, easily capable of piercing even Monsters and Phantoms whose bodies surpassed ordinary metal in durability.
Using a Treasure Weapon required years of training. Therefore, Hunters did not carry many.
But most Hunters, for the few Treasure Weapons they did possess — for partners worthy of wagering their lives on — chose weapons from this age.
The spear-axe Gaark held was one such Treasure Weapon.
The partner that had raised Gaark the Treasure Hunter to Level 7.
A halberd wreathed in intense cold, freezing those it struck from the inside out — the "Ice Storm Fang."
He had received numerous offers to sell it upon retirement, but in the end, he could never part with it.
Gripping it for the first time in ages, feeling the cold handle press against his palm, Gaark's expression hardened.
Reading good humor beneath his dour, fierce look, Kaina let out a deep sigh.
"Branch Chief, you're not a Hunter anymore, you know that, right?"
"I know. I won't do anything reckless."
"The Beginning Footprint is offering full cooperation, so there shouldn't be any problems. The Black Gold Cross is already ahead of us... It's not something you need to go yourself..."
"Tch."
At the words of his reluctant deputy branch chief, Gaark clicked his tongue and shifted his weight.
The tip of his spear-axe grazed the ceiling, sending down a dusting of frost. Wearing equipment that, combined, weighed well over a hundred kilograms, Gaark showed no sign of strain.
"You think I'm gonna let Riz make a fool of me and leave it at that? My strength may have dulled, but I'm not about to lose to any of today's Hunters! I've got experience!"
"...That's such a childlike..."
A small voice slipped out, and Gaark looked away.
Gaark was a former Level 7 Hunter. Among active Hunters, there was hardly anyone who would underestimate the one who had once held the epithet "War Demon." But it seemed that Riz had gotten under his skin so badly that he simply couldn't let it go.
He spoke to Kaina — whose head came a full head shorter than his own — almost as if making excuses.
"Besides, this whole thing stinks to high heaven. It'll be faster if I'm there on-site to respond. ...It'll look good too, performance-wise."
He had more or less forced through a budget increase.
That it had been approved without concrete intelligence was partly due to the prestige of a Level 8, but Gaark's name being known among the Empire's upper echelons played a large role as well.
Did they really need to hire this many Hunters?
The Relic Investigation Institute — the organization behind the request, and the Empire's body overseeing Treasure Hall matters — was watching with skeptical eyes. If he moved personally, they'd be more likely to accept it.
Kaina pressed her fingers to her forehead and let out a deep sigh. She couldn't stop him. There was no stopping him.
The Branch Chief might be retired, but he was still a Hunter through and through.
"I'll leave your work on your desk, so expect to stay late for a while after you get back."
"...You're really going to make me do that?"
"Don't mind if I do."
At her words, it was Gaark's turn to sigh.
§ § § Swords clashing in a narrow cave, echoes reverberating. Wolves howling in the distance, something crumbling and collapsing.
The White Wolf's Den — a place that had been virtually deserted since just after its discovery — now hosted a number of Hunters unlike anything seen before.
One of the founding Parties of the Footprint. The Black Gold Cross was among them.
Six members. Average certified Level 5.
Chief among them, their leader Sven Anger — on the cusp of Level 7 — was one of the foremost Archers among the imperial capital's Hunters, bearing the epithet "Storm Strike."
In a world where Hunters typically relied on magic for ranged combat, the Archer class was exceedingly rare.
The power of a bow was considerable. Especially when loosed with the augmented physical strength of a Hunter enhanced by Mana Material, even thick metal armor could be pierced through.
Archers weren't weak, but in Treasure Halls, where adaptability was demanded, Mages were more versatile by comparison.
That was also indicative of the Black Gold Cross as Hunters who excelled at subduing Monsters rather than exploring Treasure Halls.
Walking at the front of the Party was the leader, Sven. Behind him followed his heavily armed companions.
Two Swordsmen in full-body dark iron armor, taking on all attacks with sword and shield. A Mage specializing in protective magic. Another Mage handling wide-area annihilation. And finally, a healing expert who had only recently joined.
The dim corridor held no uncertainty or fear in their steps.
Sven halted and raised the long bow in his hand. His companions behind him stopped in unison.
It was a bow of black metal. With practiced ease, he pulled a long arrow from the quiver on his back and nocked it to the string in one smooth motion.
Both bow and arrow were Hunter-grade specials. The bow, refined for rigidity and strength, was too heavy for an ordinary person to even draw, and the arrows it fired were comically thick, long, and heavy.
The string groaned under tension, the metal bow bending deeply under his strength.
From around the corner ahead, a figure appeared. A knight in crimson armor, mounted on a wolf.
In the same instant, Sven loosed his arrow.
It was like a cannonball. Accompanied by a sound too deep to be mere wind, the arrow found its mark without fail, piercing through the skull of the crimson Wolf Knight. It didn't stop there — it blew the head clean off, and the arrow embedded itself in the wall beyond.
For a moment, the headless body of the Wolf Knight twitched, then dissolved into the air like mist.
No roar, not even a split second between death and silence — a single shot of utmost precision. Sven retrieved the arrow from the wall, returned it to his quiver, and continued onward as though nothing had happened.
The Phantoms that appeared were by no means few. But every single one — red-furred wolves and silver-furred wolves alike — had their skulls pierced by Sven's arrows the moment they showed themselves, vanishing without so much as a chance to howl.
The Black Gold Cross were Hunters who excelled at Monster subjugation. But that didn't mean they were poor at Treasure Hall exploration.
In particular, the White Wolf's Den had no dangerous traps or gimmicks.
This Treasure Hall, where Phantoms never appeared in large numbers simultaneously, was exceptionally well-suited for the Black Gold Cross.
The Party members' expressions were, even on the battlefield, somewhat relaxed. The only one showing even slight tension was the young man who had recently joined — the Healer, Henrik.
Halfway through the map, Sven spoke in a casual tone.
"Mm, the Levels have gone up, sure, but nothing else seems all that different."
"The Hunters who went ahead didn't seem to find anything either."
His red-haired female companion, Marietta — a Mage who specialized in offensive magic — chimed in at ease.
Something was definitely wrong. That much was certain. But they had no idea what the cause was.
The Black Gold Cross had high combat ability as a full Party, but their investigation capabilities were on par with an average Party.
Then again, the Explorer's Guild, which had issued the request, probably wasn't expecting much more than that. If a more detailed investigation were needed, they would have assigned specialist researchers.
Henrik timidly interjected while the others chatted amiably.
"Sven, did we really need to take this on?"
"Mmm... We were asked, so..."
At that, Sven scratched his cheek.
The Black Gold Cross had received the investigation request for the White Wolf's Den when they'd stopped by the Explorer's Guild to deliver Krai's message.
There was no obligation to take it, but since they had just delivered their Clan Master's message that "he's too busy to go," the Party had discussed it and agreed. Having spare time was also a factor.
Henrik's expression was somewhat displeased.
He was probably bothered by the fact that their Party had been treated as errand runners and then ended up getting roped into a job on top of it.
Sven spoke in a reassuring tone.
"Well, exploring a Treasure Hall is good practice. Besides, I told you before the expedition — you could've stayed in town, you know."
"...I couldn't do that. I'm a member of this Party, too..."
As the young man straightened his posture, the silent Swordsman behind him gave his back a pat.
Laughter rose as Henrik coughed.
"—Cough, cough... But it feels like we're, um, cleaning up after the Master—"
"...Well, Henrik. Someday, you'll understand."
Sven flashed a wild grin at the young man's still-protesting face.
Seeing that none of the other companions offered any objection, Henrik gave a small nod.
No real combat occurred, and they walked on for several dozen minutes.
Halfway through the latter half of the dungeon, approaching the boss room, the pouch at Sven's waist suddenly trembled.
Sven stopped immediately and pulled a black stone from the pouch.
The Footprint was a large Clan. What set it apart from other Clans was its high degree of organization — whereas most Clans were little more than a loose gathering of several Parties.
It was a characteristic rarely seen among Hunters, who disliked being bound by rules.
The "black stone" was a Treasure Weapon known as a Resonance Stone. Discovered in pairs, they carried words spoken into one stone to the other. There was nothing else like it for information transmission.
Sven's Resonance Stone had been purchased through consultation within the Black Gold Cross, and its twin was kept at the Clan headquarters for emergency contact.
Resonance Stones were absurdly expensive.
Not only expensive, but as Treasure Weapons, they required a degree of training to use. Yet even if one were discovered and brought to market, it would sell immediately.
The one Sven held had been acquired through personal connections — and not because the Clan had asked him to.
Sven held the stone to his ear, and his expression darkened in an instant. The exchange was brief.
"Yeah, got it. Thanks."
He pocketed the stone and turned to his companions, who had been silently keeping watch.
"We're pulling out. Situation's changed. Krai's orders — the Footprint is sending reinforcements. Watch out for Slimes. Pass the word to the other Parties. Sound the retreat."
"Huh? ...What?"
"Understood."
Leaving the bewildered Henrik behind, one of the Swordsmen blew the whistle.
A piercing sound — the signal for an emergency — echoed through the cave.