Faced with this sudden, head-on encounter, everyone on both sides of the stone bridge froze.

A moment later, Moga heard a chorus of startled voices rise from the other side.

“Hey! You’ve gotta be kidding me—someone’s already in there?”

“Didn’t we just finish clearing the low-tier monsters outside? We should’ve gone in around the same time!”

“Could she be a thief? Only that kind can slip in before the mobs are cleared, right?”

“No—looks like an elf!”

Noticing Moga’s pointed ears, the crowd on the far end fell quiet despite the dim light, suddenly wary of saying anything offensive.

After all, everyone knew elves were natural-born mages. Even a young, not-yet-of-age elf usually started at least at Silver among adventurers. Most of the people here were Iron or Bronze rank—none of them dared mouth off to a powerhouse.

Moga yanked up her hood in one quick motion, tugging the brim down to cover most of her face. “You’re blocking my exit,” she said coolly. “Is there a reason for that?”

“N-no! Absolutely not, Miss Elf!” blurted the man who seemed to be in front.

“Then move.” Moga’s tone turned imperious, like a highborn giving orders to commoners.

That command voice made the group instinctively part. But just then, Moga heard a familiar voice from within the crowd: “It’s you?”

At the sound, Moga turned and saw the Steel Blade captain, Breton, staring straight at her.

“Breton? You know this elf lady?” someone beside him asked. Clearly, this group was a mash-up of several parties—pretty standard in the early days of a ruin crawl, when you needed the numbers to handle swarms of monsters.

Breton glanced at the bulging pouch at Moga’s waist. His eyes lost yesterday’s friendliness and turned odd. He put on a fake smile. “Yeah. Miss Elf, you recognize me, don’t you?”

Moga fell silent. She’d been planning to use the poor lighting to pass herself off as a pure-blooded elf to cow them into letting her go—she was one of those half-elves who looked very close to pure-blood.

But Steel Blade was here. Breton and several of his members were giving her meaningful looks, plainly hinting at something.

Seeing her keep quiet, Breton went on, “Yesterday I invited you to join our party. You said you’d give me an answer today. Well, Miss Elf? Thought it over?”

By now his meaning couldn’t have been clearer. If Moga wanted him not to expose her as a half-elf, she’d have to join Steel Blade—meaning, mostly, she’d have to share her take. Refuse, and once her half-elf status was outed, these people would rob her blind anyway.

Black-on-black looting—Moga had seen it a thousand times in her years scraping by.

She drew a steady breath and kept her voice cold. “Fine. I agree.”

There was no helping it. In a fresh-crawl environment, “everyone present gets a cut” was the unspoken rule. And everyone understood the old saying: you’re guilty the moment you carry a treasure.

A smile bloomed on Breton’s face. “Welcome aboard, Miss Elf.” He paused, then told the other party leaders, “You go on ahead. We have a few things to discuss with our new teammate.”

Steel Blade was the heaviest hitter here. Hearing Breton, and glancing at the “elf lady,” the other parties clearly got the hint, didn’t quibble, and filed past.

Once they’d gone, Breton said with a grin, “Miss Elf, you know the rules. Excellent.”

He put extra weight on the word “elf.”

Expressionless, Moga unfastened the pouch at her waist and snapped it open. “Antiques and ancient gold coins—half is yours.”

“No problem.” Breton gave her a thumbs-up.

As a captain who valued survival over profit, he always seized every chance to earn without fighting during a run—threats over blades whenever possible.

This half-elf girl’s crisp response made Breton certain she was seasoned and sensible—the kind he liked dealing with best.

Bending over and taking the items out one by one, Moga felt her earlier satisfaction drain away, replaced by a spreading gray weight.

It wasn’t rare. Often after she scored a haul, another team would block her and demand half—or most. Like hyenas swarming a leopard to steal the gazelle it had bled to bring down.

She was used to it. Numb, even.

Because she knew the world worked this way—there was no kindness, no love, only the darkness at the bottom of the food chain.

Just then, she heard the Eldritch God’s voice in her mind: “You’re just handing it over like that?”

Moga murmured back, “Lord Eldritch, they’re… well-equipped, full party, I can’t take them. Keeping half is already a good outcome. If it turns into a fight, I might lose even that.”

It was the judgment born of long experience. And it didn’t factor in the Eldritch God. She still didn’t think a weakened Lord Eldritch would burn power over a petty matter like this.

In truth, this was a bottom-tier adventurer’s daily life: you gain, you lose, for one reason or another. Keep a sliver, you live on, and hunt the next haul. She’d lived that way so long her choices were reflex.

“But I disagree,” said the god.

At those words, something shivered in Moga’s cold, deadened heart.

She even wondered if she’d misheard. “Lord Eldritch… what did you just say?”

On the other side, Steel Blade was getting impatient. A fighter frowned. “What’s all the whispering? You aren’t secretly chanting a spell, are you?”

Moga ignored him. She heard the god again: “Open your mind to me completely. I’ll take control of your body.”

Moga hesitated. By rights, she should never agree to that—every pamphlet against cults warned you to fortify your heart and never surrender body or soul to an eldritch entity. That path ends in death.

Yet somehow, at this moment, obedience rose up in her—a feeling she’d never known before.

She lowered her eyes and whispered, “Yes, Lord Eldritch.”

A few seconds later, a cold will surged in like a tide. Moga felt her own consciousness guided to a corner, becoming a bystander as “she” slowly straightened.

She felt her face settle into a frosty mask and heard herself say, in a voice dripping with arrogance, “Hand over everything of value on you. I’ll let you live.”

The air froze. Only the torch flames still danced, popping and hissing.

Steel Blade’s members, Breton included, wore looks of sheer disbelief. The half-elf girl who’d been so “sensible” was suddenly talking like this?

“Half-elf, do you know what you’re saying?” Breton’s face went hard, a cold smile curling his lips. “Looks like you need a little lesson.”

“Oh?” Moga heard the god’s derisive snort. Her hand lifted without expression—and a spell snapped into being.

In the next instant, a gale from nowhere slammed across the span.

Breton and the others—even the dwarf warrior—were all blown off their feet as if swatted by an unseen giant hand, bodies smashing into jagged rock walls with dull thuds and sprays of blood. One by one they crumpled, groaning in pain.

So strong! Moga stared, stunned. Then savage satisfaction flooded in, hot and clean. That’s what you get for preying on me, for treating me like something soft to squeeze—well? Enjoy that iron wall you kicked.

Sure, I’m soft. But I’m Lord Eldritch’s soft thing.

And you dared squeeze Lord Eldritch’s soft thing?

On the other side, Yvette had no time to eavesdrop on Moga’s thoughts. She strolled unhurriedly to the fallen group, looking down at them. “Who was it that wanted to ‘teach a lesson’?”

“M—me… it was me…” Breton forced the words out from the floor, eyes wide with shock and fear.

He had no idea what had happened—only that this half-elf girl had revealed terrifying power and, in a heartbeat, wiped them all out.

Why? Had she been a hidden master all along, just pretending to be weak?

Ten minutes later, after obediently leaving behind plenty of valuables, Steel Blade slunk away. They were all badly injured, in no shape to continue; retreat was their only option.

After they left, the spectator-self inside Moga felt control drift back. Her awareness slid into place—her body was hers again.

She blinked, a little dazed, almost unable to believe it.

Because of all the ugly tales about eldritch beings, the instant she’d agreed, she’d already accepted the outcome: her body taken, her fate sealed as a vessel or puppet.

It was reckless, impulsive—unlike her cautious nature. She couldn’t say why she’d yielded in that moment.

What was more unbelievable: the god actually kept its word and returned her body. It seemed it had only stepped in to vent her anger. A wish like that—no prayer to any true god would ever grant it, even if said ten thousand times.

A few minutes later, she emerged from the ruin’s mouth. The sky was already dim; beyond the dusk, stars pricked to life like a handful of ground glass flung across velvet.

She patted the weighty pouch at her waist, exhaled, and felt a warmth she’d never known before bloom through her chest.

She thought, she really couldn’t tell anymore—what exactly did this Lord Eldritch want?