"Achoo!"
"Duncan? Did you catch a cold?" Bell asked curiously as he came to visit.
Thanks to Duncan's protection, Bell hadn't been badly hurt. Aside from superficial cuts and bruises, his biggest issue was some internal shock from being flung by the bear. Because he'd poured most of the recovery potions into Duncan, he hadn't been treated immediately—but after a simple check and treatment by the Ningishzida Familia healer, he didn't even need to be hospitalized.
"Do adventurers even catch colds?" Duncan countered.
"They probably do, right? Grandpa said adventurers can get sick too… like Alfia-mama and Uncle Zald," Bell said, his mood sinking.
"That's not the same thing at all," Duncan sighed. His good mood dipped the moment those two were mentioned.
Their serious illness wasn't a secret. Zeus had said it had dragged on for a long time. Even at the height of the Zeus and Hera Familias, after turning the entire Lower World upside down, they still couldn't find a cure—only ways to delay it. It was basically like cancer back on Earth: you could throw everything you had at it and still only buy time.
Duncan, of course, had no idea that at that exact moment two gods were talking about him. How would he ever deserve to be on the radar of two deities?
To pull Bell out of the slump, Duncan changed the subject.
"Where's Uncle Zald?"
"No idea. After we got up and ate breakfast, we split up," Bell answered honestly.
If not for Duncan's heavy injury and Bell being so young, Zald hadn't even wanted to come to town in the first place. The Zeus and Hera Familias might have fallen, but he and Alfia were still too recognizable. Even after years of lying low, towns still had gods—gods who could identify them at a glance.
And Zeus? Even worse. He'd hidden in some backwater valley specifically to avoid Hera tracking him down. If he showed up in town openly, it'd be like mailing Hera his address. So in the end, Zald was the one who came.
As for relying on Alfia to take care of people… Zald would sooner bet on a pig climbing a tree.
Hospital life was dull: scheduled checkups, then lying in bed staring at the ceiling.
Duncan had always hated hospitals. Honestly, who liked them? You had to endure disinfectant, that weird "hospital blend" smell, and you were surrounded by seriously injured patients.
And compared to those heavy cases, Duncan looked practically bouncy—so he drew plenty of hostile looks.
Why do I have to rot in bed while you're running around like nothing happened?
After breakfast and the morning check, he'd slip out of the Ningishzida clinic, then slip back at night so both sides could enjoy some peace.
Since it was a town and the others were badly injured, safety wasn't much of an issue. Most of the resentment was just… resentment. And in a treatment facility, you couldn't start fights without getting blacklisted. Adventurers respected healing Familias as a rule—because anyone could end up in that bed tomorrow.
If someone really caused trouble, the clinic didn't even need to swing first. Other adventurers would pin the idiot down on the spot. Earning a healer Familia's goodwill was a valuable thing.
Three more days passed like that.
Finally, with his recovery confirmed, Duncan was discharged—while the Ningishzida Familia saw him off with visible reluctance. A fat wallet like that walking away? Painful. And this wasn't Orario—big spenders weren't exactly common here, and they certainly weren't Dian Cecht's Familia.
"Where are we going?" Duncan asked, noticing Zald wasn't heading toward the town gate.
"Buying new weapons for you and Bell. Yours were both wrecked, right? And Bell's probably close to Level 2. Normal daggers won't keep up with an upper-class adventurer's physical strength."
That instantly lifted both Duncan and Bell's spirits—their steps got lighter without even realizing it.
They arrived at the same familiar weapon shop.
"Welcome—oh? Duncan, you're here again? And this customer is…?" Gil, the shopkeeper, started with his practiced sales smile, then lowered his voice as he glanced at the hulking figure beside him.
Zald wasn't wearing his full armor in town, and he'd hidden his face beneath a cloak, so Gil couldn't place him. But the presence and build screamed "powerful adventurer." Possibly Level 2, Gil guessed.
He didn't even dare guess First-Class. Those were mostly concentrated in Orario—elsewhere they were practically mythical.
"Guardian," Duncan said simply. "He's here to buy us weapons."
"You know him?" Zald asked, surprised.
"I came to look around a bunch of times. The clinic was too boring."
"That's fair," Zald nodded in full agreement—he'd lived that reality plenty of times.
"Good. If you've already studied the inventory, then tell him what you want."
Duncan didn't waste a second. He dug into his bag and pulled out the spearhead he'd salvaged—he'd already thrown away the shattered shaft.
"Uncle Gil—can you fix this?"
Gil took it and examined it closely. "This is… a direwolf fang reinforced with super-hard metal. But this damage is insane. What did you do to it?"
"In the Great Tree Labyrinth. Fought a bear."
"…."
Gil stared at Duncan like his brain had crashed.
A bear—one with a potential rating in the Level 3 bracket. Which meant this kid was at least… Level 2?
Duncan suddenly understood why novel protagonists loved "playing weak." Watching someone's worldview crack in real time really was kind of satisfying.
But he didn't have time to savor it.
"Well? Can it be fixed?"
Gil snapped back to reality and inspected it again, more carefully, his face growing increasingly grave.
"…I'll be blunt, kid. You should give up on this spearhead."
Duncan's expression fell. He'd expected it, but hearing it still stung.
"The wear is too severe. Even if we melt it down and reforge it, it'll cost a fortune—and the strength will drop a lot. Forcing a repair isn't worth it. You're better off replacing the weapon."
Gil wasn't dodging. With a hulking "guardian" standing right there, he had no interest in scamming anyone. And if Duncan was truly Level 2 at this age, he was a future monster—Level 4, maybe even Level 5 someday. That kind of long-term customer was worth more than any short-term profit.
"We've got weapons tougher than this one. Go pick something—I'll give you my biggest discount," Gil said, suddenly energetic.
....
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