Yawind Town—a remote settlement at the southern edge of the United Kingdom.

Yet thanks to its proximity to the Amethyst Dungeon, it thrived with adventurers and merchants, rivaling even mid-sized cities in prosperity.

The Adventurers’ Guild had even established a regional branch here.

The Dungeon’s resources fueled the town’s economy, creating many local specialties.

But the most notorious landmark was not rare high-purity mana crystals, nor the diverse monster materials.

It was the Rotten Willow Tavern—famous for its house brew, a murky liquor so foul it was said a single splash could kill a Walking Mushroom.

And the owner still watered it down more than half.

Yet priced at only a copper coin per cup, it became irreplaceable for the poorest adventurers.

Thus, the Rotten Willow was their gathering place.

In Yawind, you could grab a random passerby—he might not know where the Guild’s office was, but he’d know exactly where to find the tavern.

Today, the tavern was as crowded as always, packed with the rabble.

They guzzled bad liquor and shouted gossip.

About the Hermit Empire’s increasingly frequent border provocations.

About how three months ago the Silver Thorn squad rescued a duke’s daughter from the Dungeon’s deep levels, earning a reward so rare it was legendary—an entire city.

Now, “Silver Thorn” was a household name, a legend among adventurers. Every toast carried the fire of ambition for fame and fortune.

When a disheveled, weary man pushed through the wooden door, no one spared him a glance. Such figures were common here.

He scanned the room, then strode to a fat man drinking alone in the corner. The fat one sipped his cloudy liquor as though it were fine wine.

Seeing the man sit opposite, the fat one called his name.

“Dilan. Been years.

Weren’t you retired? What do you want with me?

Don’t tell me you missed me. I’ll puke if you do.”

“Fatty, you’re still in that business, aren’t you?”

That was his nickname—Fatty.

And Dilan spoke without restraint.

Fatty’s eyelid twitched. He glanced around quickly before lowering his voice, angry.

“Are you crazy? You nearly said the word out loud. Want to get me killed?”

But Dilan’s face lit up.

“So you are still in. Good. I need three portions.”

He pulled out a pouch, setting it on the table. Twenty-seven silver coins.

Fatty narrowed his eyes, ignoring the pouch. Instead, he studied Dilan.

The man had aged, his body weakened, calluses gone from his hands.

“Sorry, Dilan. I can’t sell to you.

From the look of you, your adventuring skills are long rusted.

We’ve been friends too long—I won’t watch you walk to your death.”

Dilan suddenly seized Fatty’s collar, bloodshot eyes wild with desperation.

But Fatty only met his gaze calmly.

After a long moment, Dilan’s grip slackened. He collapsed into the chair, voice hoarse.

“Fatty, please. My daughter… she was poisoned on a border mission. Blood Poison.

I need money. A lot.

I don’t know any other way… please…”

Fatty fell silent.

Blood Poison. The vampires’ most insidious curse.

It didn’t kill outright. Instead, it slowly turned the victim into a blood ghoul.

The transformed retained their memories—but not their thirst. Even before family, they wept as they devoured them.

Only before true vampires did they kneel as obedient slaves.

There were cures.

Two, well-known: the Church’s Blessing, or an Antivitae Elixir.

Both could save the victim if done before the transformation completed.

But the Blessing required a bishop, days of rituals. The elixir cost fifty gold.

And ordinary folk like Dilan had no access to either.

The bishop’s attention was beyond reach. The elixir was his only hope.

But how could a once-Silver ranked adventurer, now fallen, earn fifty gold in time?

Only two ways brought fast money: danger or crime.

And the fastest combined both.

On the 5th floor of Amethyst Dungeon grew an infamous monster-plant—Parasitic Trees.

As their name implied, they captured living people, forced tree-seeds into them, and transformed them into walking stumps—their legs.

The victim’s brain was destroyed in the process. Even if rescued, only a breathing husk remained.

Hence their dreadful reputation.

Yet few knew their seeds were superb ingredients for psychic elixirs.

Banned by the kingdom for their inhuman harvest method, both knowledge and trade were suppressed.

But the greater the ban, the greater the profit.

So of course, some trafficked secretly.

And Fatty’s “Sleep Dust” was the essential tool for safely harvesting the seeds. Exactly what Dilan wanted.

But harvesting wasn’t simple.

Parasitic Trees weren’t high-level, but they were numerous, swarming the swamps of the 5th floor.

And worst, they used the skills and spells of their victims.

Imagine being besieged by dozens of trees, each wielding different abilities. Even powerful adventurers fell there—only to rise again as stronger trees.

They were a threat far beyond their level.

Fatty knew instantly: Dilan would go alone.

Not that anyone would party with him now.

And Fatty was certain—Dilan would die.

But Fatty, too, had a daughter. His heart.

He knew watching one’s only child turn into a blood ghoul was a torment worse than death.

“Ahhh…” Fatty sighed long.

He scooped up the pouch, then slipped Dilan five small bags.

“Five portions!?”

“This stuff is cheaper now. And for an old friend, I won’t take profit.

If you’re lucky… one run might be enough.”

“Thank you… thank you…”

Clutching the bags like lifelines, Dilan rushed out.

Fatty lifted his cup again, sipping the foul brew.

“Seventy-three silver, gone.

I’m going soft. Too old for this game.

Maybe it’s time to retire, go back home…”