Is It Wrong For An Assassin To Be In The Dungeon? V1 (Danmachi Fanfic)

Chapter 41: Blood-Stained Steel

"Good night Marcus." Bell yawns before entering his tent, anticipating much-needed sleep after his 'encounter' with the girls bathing. Something tells me Hermes is behind this, but I'm not going to worry about that now.

"Good night Bell." I reply as I return to my tent, disappearing from view.

As the night dies down and all things quiet, I find myself sitting on my bed, unable to stop thinking of those faces I saw. Those hideous, malicious faces that knocked me out, carried me into the Dungeon and left me for dead.

The Crime Guild.

What are they doing here in the 18th floor? Have they caught wind that I survived their assassination attempt? No, that can't be it. If they did they would have noticed me when they walked past and would have jumped into action. So if they're not here for me, what are they here for?

I unhook my back sword from my belt and placed it within my palms, drawing the sword from its scabbard, revealing its gleaming sharp blade that casts a reflection of my eyes. Piercing brown eyes. This sword, bestowed upon me as a gift, a craft from the mighty hands of Divine Goibniu himself. Would he be proud, knowing that his sword will be used to kill, not monsters, but other humans?

...

Heh. What am I even thinking. They aren't human.

They're animals. They're monsters.

I cannot forget. I am a Watcher, sworn loyalty to the Order of the Temple. Their priorities come first. And if I have to slaughter everyone in that group that kidnapped me, even if I am to use a weapon gifted to me by a Divine Being...

So be it.

I sheath my sword and tucked it under my belt as I stood up from my bed, steeling my nerves. It's been quite some time but...

Oh boy, here I go killing again.

SOME TIME LATER...

"Hahaha! Cheers!" The seven men cried as they took another swig at their mugs, downing the alcohol down their throats for the umpteenth time that I've lost count.

I followed the group into a small tavern at the edge of Rivira. A small tavern. It wasn't as grand and comfortable tavern as the Hostess of Fertility. The bar itself is in fact just a large mound of earth, with crude beams and planks to support this shoddy abomination of a tavern.

From the earthen walls leaked some unknown, muddy liquid, now dried up like smears of brown concrete. The floor is a layer of wooden planks where a thick layer of sawdust lies to soak up any spilled beer, vomit or whatever else the bar's patrons slipped up from their gritty paws. The smell of moldy wood and ancient food lingers in the stagnant air.

I sat quietly in the darkened corner, where the light from the lamps hanging above our heads refuses to reach. Keeping my head low, I stared at my hardening plate of noodles as I continue to eavesdrop on the group's conversation, who were the only large group of customers confined within the cramped space of the pub.

"Fine job today boys!" The man with the hideous scars rallied his fellow men. "Today we feast!"

The cheers of his friends echo throughout the tavern, which only makes me grip my thigh in anger.

These men... They look so happy, so joyful. Yet behind that malicious smile is a soul filled with bilious malevolence, a soul of cold-heart intentions. From the outside, they look like your everyday Joe. Simple adventurers coming back from a hardy journey from the Dungeon. But I know these were the ones that attacked me, had me tied up, and brought me into the Dungeon for me to rot.