Who Designed This Dungeon Chapter 16 - 16

"Finally back, Sali. Did you have fun while you were out?"

Philip's expression softened instantly. His youngest son was the one person who could always lt his stern deanor.

In the doorway stood the youth in question—a boy whose features seed almost unreal. Red lips, fair skin, and an elegance that made people look twice. To call him beautiful might seem odd for a man, yet it was the first word that ca to mind.

Unlike the Bedford family's trademark brown hair, Sali's was the color of pale moonlight, tied into a neat ponytail that lent him a clean, dashing air. His travel coat—expertly cut but dusted with the grit of the road—spoke of long journeys. At first glance, he could pass for a gallant young nobleman…

If you ignored the fact he stood barely 1.6 ters tall, with features delicate enough to blur the line between masculine and feminine.

"Trap" didn't quite fit—there was a firm, quiet confidence in his bearing—but "rugged" would have been an insult to those refined looks. Perhaps "a gracefully handso youth with a trace of androgyny" ca closest.

The more Philip looked at Sali, the more he saw his late mother in him: her beauty, her sharp mind, her poise. Even at this age, Sali could hold his own in matters of trade, commanding a caravan as though born to it. In Philip's eyes, he was the perfect heir.

If only he weren't illegitimate.

Born to Philip and a commoner, Sali had only joined the household after his mother's death five years ago. Out of guilt, Philip's affection toward him was obvious—and it earned the boy quiet resentnt from his two elder brothers, and even a degree of coldness from the servants.

Perhaps that was why, after his coming-of-age, Sali spent more ti traveling than at ho—building a caravan business so profitable it had begun to turn heads in the region.

"How much did you make this ti?" Philip asked warmly. "Co, share your joy with your father."

"The sa as usual. Nothing worth boasting about." Sali rose on tiptoe to hang his coat on the rack, then noticed the thick report on Philip's desk. "I heard the dungeon's changed. Have you already finished exploring it?"

Philip gave a dry chuckle, pushing the stack of papers toward him. "Finished? Not even close. These are from the researchers and adventurers we hired—along with a few scraps of scattered intelligence. Take a look, see if you can figure out how to gnaw through this hard bone."

"Is it really as dangerous as the rumors say?"

Sali picked up the report. His faint, polite smile slowly faded as he read. When he set the papers down, his face was blank, save for the slight furrow in his brow.

Philip caught the expression and, oddly, felt a small spark of satisfaction. At least his son found it troubleso too.

"Well? Hard to know where to start, isn't it?"

"It's not what I imagined." Sali's fingers idly turned the jeweled ring on his right hand, brows drawing tighter. "It's too easy."

Philip blinked. "Too… easy?"

That look in Sali's eyes—calm, certain—told him this wasn't empty talk.

"Do you rember the letter I sent you, Father? I ntioned I'd t so friends on my travels and wanted to bring them here as guests."

Philip leaned forward. "Don't tell your friends can—"

"That's right." Sali's mouth curved into a small, confident smile. "I haven't told you their identities yet."

His voice dropped, as though savoring the mont.

"They're Heroes."

(***)

"Achoo—!"

Wade sneezed so hard his hood shifted. "Can undead even catch colds?" he grumbled.

He sat before his crystal ball—his favorite form of entertainnt—watching adventurers bumble, battle, and occasionally impress their way through the dungeon.

The variety never failed to amuse him.

One adventurer used a flying pet to light the beacons from a distance, opening the fortress gates without a scratch.

Another transford into a rman to slip into the monster horde—only to discover, after lighting two beacons, that he'd beco a female rman… and all the dungeon's rn were male. The adventurer chose suicide over whatever fate awaited him.

One particularly strange mind discovered that skeletons, when dismantled, tended to drop their skulls either face-up or face-down. Combining the two created a crude perpetual motion machine. Unfortunately, it spun so fast the skulls' soul-flas went out, killing them instantly.

Then there were the "brute force" players.

One barbarian—nearly three ters tall, with giant's blood—downed a berserk potion, charged through the portal, and carved a straight line to the fortress gates with twin axes. His assault was so relentless Wade nearly sent out a Crucible Knight just to stop him.

In the end, it was the Basilisk army, with their death-spore spray, that finally dropped him.

"Basilisks really are the best," Wade murmured reverently, pressing his hands together. "I should add more monsters with instant-kill abilities. Brute-force types are terrifying."

Then his gaze snagged on a figure onscreen.

"Huh? What's he doing?"

A lean young man with pale skin and fine clothes—Vilde. Wade rembered him as a cookie-cutter spoiled young master… the type who usually died early.

Yet here he was, alive, even as the dungeon neared closing.

What caught Wade's eye wasn't just his survival—it was what Vilde held. A red-and-white sphere.

"…That's a Poké Ball. I hid that deep in the grass, guarded by Bulbasaurs. How did he find it?"

Luck could explain finding the ball. But—

"Go, Pikachu! Use Thunderbolt!"

Vilde struck a dramatic pose, hurling the ball. In a burst of light, a real Pikachu appeared.

"Pika pika—CHUUU!"

Arcs of yellow lightning leapt out, frying an undead soldier to a crisp. It fell, blackened and smoking.

"Well done, Pikachu! As expected of my partner!"

"Pika." Pikachu hopped onto his head with casual grace.

Wade stared. "No way. How did he catch Pikachu? He couldn't have beaten it…"

He had considered that an adventurer might capture Pokémon, but not this pampered weakling. And yet—Vilde and Pikachu moved like a practiced team. Wade even suspected that if Pikachu fell, it would force itself back up just to spare its trainer grief.

"This guy's got talent… at least for training Pokémon."

For the first ti, Wade felt the itch—not to kill this adventurer, but to fight him.

(*****)

If you'd like to read 20 chapters ahead, please consider joining my Patreon: patreon/ANeet. Your support ans a lot. Thank you!