aning against the wall next to them.”

“Hm, that’s right—how did you know?”

“Because of… The atmosphere, I guess.”

Although it was not written on their faces, they still looked different from ordinary citizens.

The lion-head-man let out a growl in his throat.

“That’s right, it’s the atmosphere—the appearance is stern, the glance sharp, and the face somewhat gloomy—a man like that is undoubtedly an adventurer.
A man who carries anxieties and uncertainties about his own future.”

“…Aren’t there any adventurers who have hope for the future?—Who smiles with a bright face and enjoys themselves?”

“Those adventurers die off.”

It was a terribly flat voice.
Mitrof opened his eyes wide.

“The reason adventurers make a fuss in the bar is because there are eyes around and comrades to rely on—they must act with confidence—If they show any signs of cowardice or weakness, they will be mocked as fools.
So they drink the liquor like water, numb their anxieties and fears, and make vulgar jokes.
However, when they are alone soaking in the bath, they all reflect upon their own smallness.”

Mitrof reevaluated the bathhouse again.


There were men with dark faces here and there.
They were probably adventurers.
They bowed their heads, placed their hands on their foreheads, held onto their own arms, and were engrossed in their own thoughts.

The image of the adventurer that Mitrof had imagined based on stories was different.

Nowhere is there a story of drinking, playing with women, and seeking freedom and wealth by challenging the labyrinth for death and honor.

They were simply people.

Human beings who lived each day carefully, laughed with their companions, and reported on the well-being of their families.
They were a lonely race who suffered in solitude behind the scenes.

“…Is everyone afraid?”

“Yes, everyone is afraid; you also put on a brave face as an adventurer.”

“So, they were all gloomy and troubled inside?”

“That’s what it means to be an adventurer—how many glamorous days do you have until you die?—Only foolish people who continue to dive into the labyrinth remain—what is your purpose for going into the labyrinth?”

‘For what?

‘To survive?


‘To obtain daily meals?

‘I don’t know.’

Until now, Mitrof had never chosen his own life with his own will.
He was ordered by his father, kept captive, and his life was put on hold.
Then, he was driven out because he had no use left.

Even coming to the labyrinth was also his father’s instruction.

‘I was decided to die in a place that was not within their sight.

‘That’s why I entered the labyrinth, because my father told me to.

‘Do I not even have a say in my own death?’

Even Mitrof didn’t understand herself.

‘I wonder what happened to Grace.

‘She didn’t seem like an adventurer at all.
In fact, she said she was a hunter.

‘Why would she be exploring the labyrinth?

‘I want to ask her about that.
Before, I was concerned about her, but now, would she tell me?’

Mitrof scooped up hot water and splashed it onto his face.

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