CHAPTER 133: A SILENT RETURN

The flash of the teleportation array died down, leaving behind the smell of ozone and the biting chill of the night air.

They were back.

Not inside the suffocating, mana-dense halls of Velanthris, but standing on the stone receiving platform just outside the capital’s main gate.

It was raining. A cold, miserable drizzle that plastered hair to foreheads and turned the dust on their cloaks into mud.

There were no trumpets. No cheering crowds. No flowers thrown at their feet.

The expedition, which had left days ago with hundreds of knights and nobles in shining armor, now looked like a funeral procession. Stretchers were rushed forward by waiting guild medics. Nobles wept openly, their finery torn and stained. The heroes—Daniel, Jason, William—stood huddled together, their armor dull, their expressions hollow.

Oliver stepped off the platform, his boots heavy on the wet stone. He pulled his hood up, shielding his face from the rain—and from the prying eyes of the guild officials rushing toward them.

"Oliver," Elisha called out softly.

He turned. The princess looked exhausted. Her golden hair was limp, her eyes red-rimmed. Ronald stood beside her, his arm in a sling, his face grim.

"We have to go to the palace," she said, her voice strained. "To report to the Emperor. You should come. You saved—"

"No," Oliver cut her off gently. His voice was rough, scraping against his throat. "We’re done, Princess. My party is exhausted. We’re not nobles. We’re not soldiers. We’re adventurers."

He gestured to Ariana, who was leaning heavily on her staff, her eyes half-shut, and Isolde, who was staring at the palace walls with a cold, distant expression.

"We need rest. Not politics."

Elisha hesitated, looking at the chaos around them—the shouting commanders, the weeping families. Then she nodded, a look of profound sadness crossing her face.

"I understand. Go. I’ll... I’ll handle the court."

"Good luck," Oliver murmured.

He turned to his group. "Let’s go home."

****

The walk through the capital was a blur. The streets were mostly empty due to the rain, the mana lamps flickering in the wind.

When they finally reached their inn—The Silver Quill, a decent establishment they had booked before leaving—it felt like they had been gone for years, not days.

Oliver pushed the heavy wooden door open.

It was quiet inside. The innkeeper, a balding man who didn’t ask questions, glanced up from his ledger, saw their state—soaked, bloodied, and dead-eyed—and simply nodded, tossing a key onto the counter.

"Water’s hot if you need it. Kitchen’s closed, but I’ve got cold meat and bread."

"Send it up," Oliver rasped, grabbing the key.

They tramped up the stairs, the wood creaking under their heavy boots.

Oliver let his pack slide to the floor with a heavy thud. He unclasped his cloak and let it drop, not caring where it landed.

"We’re alive," Ariana whispered, sinking onto the nearest bed. She didn’t even take off her boots. She just stared at the ceiling, her eyes wide and unblinking. "I thought... I really thought we were going to die on that staircase."

Isolde walked to the window, staring out at the rainy street. She poured herself a glass of water from the pitcher on the table, her hand trembling slightly—not from fear, but from the adrenaline crash.

"We underestimated it," Isolde said, her voice low. "The mental strain... it wasn’t magic power that beat us. It was the dungeon itself."

Seraphine stood in the center of the room. Her silver eyes flickered as she processed data.

"Analysis: Expedition casualty rate estimated at 40%. Psychological trauma detected in 85% of returning combatants. Master’s vitals are stable, but fatigue levels are critical."

Oliver groaned, collapsing into a chair. He rubbed his face with his hands.

"Forty percent..." he muttered. "And we barely scratched the twenty-fifth floor."

He looked at his companions.

Isolde, usually so arrogant and untouchable, looked drained. Ariana, the optimist, looked broken. Seraphine was physically fine, but even she seemed to be processing the sheer inefficiency of the slaughter they had witnessed.

"The Heroes," Oliver said, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "Did you see them at the checkpoint? Daniel was shaking. Jason wouldn’t even look anyone in the eye."

"They broke," Isolde said coldly, turning from the window. "They’re children playing at war. The moment the dungeon stopped playing by their rules, they crumbled."

She took a sip of water, her crimson eyes darkening.

"While we were fighting off the void-beasts on the stairs, they were screaming at hallucinations. If Elisha hadn’t ordered the retreat..."

"We would have been the only ones walking out," Oliver finished grimly.

Ariana sat up, hugging her knees. "What happens now? The expedition failed. The Emperor isn’t going to be happy."

"That’s tomorrow’s problem," Oliver said, standing up with a groan. His bones popped. "Tomorrow, the blame game starts. Tomorrow, the nobles will look for scapegoats. But tonight..."

He looked at the cold beds.

"Tonight, we sleep. Real sleep. No watches. No monsters."

He walked over to the second bed and fell onto it, face-first.

"Seraphine," he mumbled into the pillow. "Wake me up if the building is on fire. Otherwise... let me rot."

"Acknowledged, Master," Seraphine replied softly.

Isolde sighed, kicking off her boots and crawling into the bed beside Ariana, too tired to care about sleeping arrangements.

"Goodnight, Oliver," she whispered.

"Night."

Within minutes, the room was filled with the sound of deep, exhausted breathing.

*****

The sunlight hitting Oliver’s face wasn’t what woke him.

It was the noise.

CRASH. THUD. CLANK.

The sounds of heavy furniture being moved, boots stomping on wooden floorboards, and commanding voices shouting orders drifted up from the first floor. It sounded like a tavern brawl had broken out before breakfast.

Oliver groaned, burying his face in the pillow. "Can’t a man sleep in for once..."

He waited for the sounds of fighting, for mugs shattering or drunkards yelling. But the noise stopped as abruptly as it had begun.

Silence followed. Absolute, heavy silence.

That was worse.

In a city inn like The Silver Quill, silence at this hour meant something was wrong.

Oliver rolled out of bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Isolde and the others were still asleep—or pretending to be—exhausted from the expedition. He grabbed his shirt, threw on his disguise cloak just in case, and stepped out into the hallway.

He crept down the stairs, hand instinctively hovering near where his sword would be.

The common room, usually bustling with merchants and adventurers grabbing a morning meal, was completely empty.

No customers eating porridge. No innkeeper wiping the counter. The chairs were pushed neatly under the tables, and the floor was swept clean.

"Where is everyone?" Oliver muttered, stepping off the last stair.

The atmosphere was thick, pressurized. He scanned the corners.

There.

Standing in the shadows of the entrance were knights. Royal Guards, fully armored, hands resting on pommels, standing as still as statues. No wonder the place was empty. They had cleared it out.

"Oh," a familiar, soft voice cut through the quiet. "So you are awake."

Oliver turned toward the center of the room.

Sitting at the only occupied table, sipping a cup of steaming tea with perfect elegance, was Princess Elisha.

She looked different from the mud-stained, desperate leader in the dungeon yesterday. Her hair was tied back with a silk ribbon, and she wore a casual but finely tailored day dress of pale blue. She looked refreshed, though the shadows under her eyes betrayed her lingering fatigue.

Ronald stood behind her chair, his arm still in a sling but his posture rigid.

Oliver blinked, relaxing his stance. He walked over, pulling out the chair opposite her.

"Good morning, Princess."

"Good morning, Oliver," she replied, setting her cup down with a soft clink.

He gestured vaguely at the empty room and the intimidating knights guarding the door.

"You know, usually when people visit, they just knock. They don’t evict the entire building."

Elisha smiled faintly. "Security protocols, I’m afraid. Ronald insisted. We couldn’t exactly have a private conversation with adventurers shouting over their ale."

"I guess not," Oliver said, sitting down. He rubbed the back of his neck, still waking up. "But... why are you here? If you needed me, you could have just sent a messenger. I would have come to the palace."

Elisha looked down at her tea, tracing the rim of the cup with a finger.

"I know," she said softly. "But... I wanted to get out. I needed some fresh air."

Oliver raised an eyebrow. He looked at her, then let out a dry, incredulous chuckle.

"Fresh air?" he repeated, leaning forward. "Really? After yesterday?"

Elisha blinked. "What do you mean?"

"We spent four days breathing in dungeon miasma, rot, and monster blood," Oliver deadpanned. "I would have thought that was enough ’fresh air’ to last you a lifetime."

Elisha froze for a second.

Then, she burst into a laugh—a genuine, unrefined sound that startled Ronald. She covered her mouth, shoulders shaking.

"That’s... ha... that’s true," she admitted, wiping a small tear from her eye. "It was quite... aromatic, wasn’t it?"

"That’s one word for it," Oliver grinned.

The tension in the room evaporated. The knights by the door seemed to relax their shoulders just a fraction.

"But really," Oliver said, his tone turning a bit more serious. "Why did you come personally? Is it about the expedition fallout?"