Anne perched on Reta's shoulder. From directly above, she had a perfect view of what she herself lacked—those two ample swellings, filling her entire line of sight.

Of course, there was also that middle finger.

The world seemed to fall silent for a moment.

In that instant, Anne's mind was consumed only by the roaring sound of blood in her ears and the words echoing in her mind: "You damn ironing board."

Ironing board?

Ironing board?

**Ironing board?!**

No one had ever dared to call her that to her face!

And anyway, how was she a board? She had a little curve, okay!

**A hill is still a mountain!**

**A groove is still a valley!**

"You wanna die?!"

Anne sprang upright on Reta's shoulder, her killing intent bursting forth in an instant. Beneath her, the towering giant Reta's muscles bulged as veins protruded, snaking like black serpents under his skin.

His steel-forged arm emitted ear-splitting, mechanical clangs, like a mountain crumbling, exuding an aura of pure intimidation.

Moen, standing off to the side, silently gripped the hilt of his blade, his expression gradually growing serious.

"Are you two sure you really want to fight here?"

Suddenly, a soft voice, like a gentle spring breeze, swept over the area. Yet despite its tenderness, it dispelled the suffocating tension with undeniable force.

Moen caught the scent of blooming flowers.

Freya, dressed in a simple white dress, strode fearlessly between the two combatants, her serene, almost admonishing smile betraying no hint of trepidation.

"This is hardly the place or time for conflict, wouldn’t you agree?" she chided.

"......"

The about-to-erupt Anne froze, her small face stiffening instantly as her gaze instinctively swept the surroundings.

At that moment, participants who had survived the chaos from the night before and gathered here were watching her intently. Some looked intrigued, others bore cold, calculating glares.

It was as if she were a lion surrounded by a pack of hyenas, eagerly anticipating the bloodshed of mutual destruction so they could swoop in and scavenge the remains.

"......"

Anne's eyes landed momentarily on Freya, who stood there, calm yet resolute. Grinding her teeth together, Anne managed—somehow—to push the bulging veins on her forehead back down through sheer force of will.

"Hmph! Lucky for you!"

She let out a cold snort, climbed down from Reta's shoulder, and stalked away.

But as she passed by, she shot Seville a withering glare so loaded with venom it seemed as if she meant to slice off her ample chest with her eyes alone.

"One day, I’ll tear you to pieces!"

Seville: ???

What did I do?!

Looking utterly bewildered, Seville felt as if she'd just gained a mortal nemesis for no reason at all.

She felt wronged and on the verge of tears, yet unable to cry them out.

"She can hold back even now?"

Moen muttered regretfully to himself, rubbing his chin as he watched the giant retreating silhouette of Reta.

"Although she seems pretty hot-tempered, maybe she's actually not as brainless as I thought."

Well, perhaps it’s for the best—after all, in this moment, he wasn’t particularly...

Hmm?

Just as the thought crossed his mind, Moen suddenly felt another icy glare lock onto him. This new gaze carried a chilling intent so oppressive that it made his scalp tingle.

Strange. Had he offended someone else now?

He turned his head only to meet the cold stare of another saintess candidate, the Platinum Princess Margarita.

Her defining characteristic? She too was flat-chested.

...Ah, right. That last comment had collateral damage written all over it.

What a blunder. What a blunder indeed.

Moen forcibly turned his head away, pretending to feel absolutely nothing as he nodded toward Freya in front of him.

"Hello, Miss Freya. We meet again."

"Hello, Mr. Moen." Freya twirled a fragrant flower petal between her fingers and smiled softly.

"So, do you like my flowers now?" she asked, her voice light and oddly playful.

Here we go again with this strange question.

"Sorry, no. Still don’t." Moen shook his head.

"How heartless. And to think I even helped you."

Her tone carried a teasing charm, though her serene, saint-like demeanor never wavered. Her appearance wasn’t particularly stunning, yet there was something inexplicably difficult about tearing one’s gaze away from her.

"By the way," she added, her tone suddenly shifting, "would you like to join us?"

"Join you? What do you mean?"

"A partnership," Freya replied in a gentle voice.

"Given the current circumstances, perhaps it’s better for us to band together for now."

"And why me? In the eyes of most people here, I’m a soft, easy target—a lamb for the slaughter."

Moen raised an eyebrow.

"There are countless more ‘qualified’ individuals to choose from, no?"

"Who’s to say?" Freya said cryptically, a faint smile playing at her lips.

"After all, words like ‘qualified’ are subjective at their core, aren’t they? Anyway, I have faith in you, Mr. Moen. Before we ultimately clash for the coveted final position, I think we’d benefit from working together."

Moen’s eyes flickered with thought.

Though Freya had clearly extended a hand of goodwill, that nagging sense of something being "off" wouldn’t leave him.

"Apologies," he said firmly. "I already have teammates."

"Is that so?"

Freya didn’t push further. She merely sighed softly.

"What a pity."

That sigh, so delicate and filled with sorrow, seemed to land directly onto Moen’s most tender nerve, nearly swaying his resolve.

But then, like a flash of heat, clarity burned through the haze clouding his mind.

"This is…"

Moen frowned, looking up quickly, but Freya was already walking away.

She did not linger near him, though from the shadow she cast behind her, an icy gaze bore into him once more.

Alongside it came a bone-chilling sneer.

Moen hesitated for a moment, then nonchalantly raised his middle finger toward the shadow.

"What are you looking at, you simp?"

"……"

---

When the mere eight hours of daylight were nearly halfway gone, someone finally lost patience and ventured boldly into the corridor.

And once the first person stepped forward, the others found their hesitation melting away like frost under the sun. The reluctance that had kept them loitering now seemed to vanish entirely.

Many who had previously been unwilling to play the role of the sacrificial "pathfinder" were now inexplicably eager to charge ahead.

After the events of the prior night, most of the survivors’ mindsets had shifted. Their desire to leave this relic—forever cloaked in the stench of decay by night—spurred them onward.

The memory of those terrifying creatures still loomed large.

"Let’s go too."

Seeing that more than half the crowd had entered, Moen's group quieted their presence and discreetly followed at the rear.

The corridor was spacious enough to accommodate even a hundred people without feeling cramped, yet it remained steeped in pitch-black darkness, devoid of even the faintest light.

Some began casting illumination magic, revealing a massive manmade chamber up ahead. At the very center of the room lay a deep pit leading downward. Surrounding its edges was a rusted, colossal platform fashioned into an elevator.

Moen leaned over the edge slightly, peering into the pit. The drop was considerable—jumping directly would be unwise.

"Should we fly down?" Vicky asked.

"I can summon something."

Scanning their surroundings, Moen noticed several others already casting flying spells or summoning winged creatures to descend into the pit.

"No need," he said, shaking his head and pointing at the elevator.

"We'll use that."

"You think it’ll work?"

Fannie, a senior member of their group, raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"It looks like it’s falling apart already."

It was true the elevator had been entirely overlooked by the majority of entrants. Covered in layers of rust, it seemed to radiate an aura of decay, as though it might collapse into a pile of scrap at any moment.

"I think it’ll hold up. Machinery powered by magic tends to be sturdier than it looks."

Walking up to the control panel, Moen tried pulling the lever—no reaction. After a moment's thought,, he gave it a solid kick, and finally, threads of magical light crawled across the panel. The elevator rumbled to life, groaning loudly as it lurched into action.

Moen turned back toward his teammates and shrugged nonchalantly.

"See? Told you it still works."

---

On the slowly descending elevator platform, a bored Seville yawned and asked half-heartedly,

"You know, we could’ve been down there ages ago if we used magic. Was this step really necessary?"

"Based on my experience, this is safer," Moen responded.

"Safer?!"

Seville gestured dramatically toward the rusted, precariously creaking metal around them.

"You’re seriously trying to call **this** safe?"

"More or less," Moen replied, gazing down over the platform’s edge at the crowd below. Most had already landed and seemed to be exploring peacefully.

"It’s better to be cautious."

"..."

Seville rolled her eyes skeptically, clearly unconvinced by Moen’s rationale.

To her, all this extra caution seemed entirely unnecessary. After all, hadn’t it only just begun? Who would risk stirring trouble at such an early stage in an unknown location?

As this thought crossed her mind, she found herself glancing wistfully at one of the flying figures—someone riding regally atop a striking griffon high above them.

If only Moen had summoned something to carry them too… Like that imagery she'd daydreamed about: soaring through the air on such a magnificent beast, Moen seated behind her, wrapping an arm around her waist, leaning close to whisper in her ear…

"My love… hold tight…"

Oh no—just imagining it was enough to make her cheeks flush with blood!

But…

A twinge of regret surfaced in her heart.

Even someone as dashing as Moen could make the occasional poor judgment call. At least in this case, his overly cautious approach seemed wholly unnecessary and slow--

**Smack.**

A crisp, loud sound shattered the silence of the descending platform, cutting off Seville’s reverie.

Her eyes darted downward in confusion.

"Which bastard just smacked my ass?!"

A furious roar punctuated the air, accompanied by the explosive release of powerful magic.

The magical flare illuminated the dark pit, though its target remained unclear.

Then more angry shouts erupted.

"Who the hell ambushed me?!"

"What the—someone groped my chest. Dude, I’m a guy!"

"Unforgivable! You lowlifes have no honor—weren’t we supposed to be cooperating for now?!"

The scene devolved rapidly into chaos, as retaliatory magic and combat techniques flared and erupted like a series of fireworks igniting the gloom.

For reasons yet unknown, the disturbance quickly spread into an all-out brawl.

Pretty soon, participants began frantically stacking protective buffs on themselves. Under the pretense of self-defense, everyone except their immediate team members became fair game.

And naturally, the most conspicuous targets were those cruising above it all atop winged beasts, daring to flaunt their comfort and superiority—even going so far as to obnoxiously *show off affection* in the midst of it.

*Damn it, don't they know everyone else here is single?*

Seville watched dumbfounded as the very griffon she’d envied moments ago was swiftly engulfed in a barrage of furious spells. Burned feathers scattered in all directions as a once-majestic mount was reduced to a roasted, charred shadow of its former self.

The couple riding atop—caught entirely unprepared—were instantly disqualified, unable even to scream before they were obliterated.

At this moment, the elevator happened to come to a steady stop at the bottom.

Without any excess magical aura, it was completely inconspicuous amidst the chaos and darkness.

Moen was the first to step out of the elevator. Adjusting his collar against the dazzling backdrop, he turned back with a smile:

"See? I told you it would be safe."

"……"