Rise of the F-Rank Hero-Chapter 148: Floor 26

The fire crackled, casting long, dancing shadows against the trees. The meal was finished, and the fatigue of travel was setting in.

"Well," Amy announced, standing up and dusting off her skirt. She grabbed her sleeping roll. "I’m turning in."

She didn’t walk toward the Hero camp. She walked straight toward Oliver’s solitary tent.

William, who had been watching them like a hawk from across the clearing, shot to his feet.

"Amy! Where are you going?"

Amy paused at the tent flap. "To sleep, obviously."

"In his tent?" William sputtered, his face flushing red in the firelight. "That’s... that’s completely inappropriate! You’re the Saintess! You can’t share a tent with a mercenary man you barely know!"

Amy turned slowly. The warmth in her eyes vanished.

"I know him well enough," she said coldly. "And honestly, William? I feel safer in here than I do out there."

The implication hit William like a physical slap. He reeled back, his mouth opening and closing.

Jason stood up, trying to salvage the situation. "Now, Amy, be reasonable. It’s not about trust. It’s about safety. He’s a stranger. We don’t know his habits. It could be dangerous for a young woman to—"

"Mind your own business," Amy snapped, cutting him off.

The campsite went silent. Even the knights stopped polishing their armor to listen.

"You guys are not my parents," Amy declared, her voice ringing with finality. "You don’t get to tell me what to do, who to talk to, or where to sleep. I’m an adult, and I’m sleeping where I choose."

She glared at them one last time.

"Goodnight."

She ducked into the tent. The flap zipped shut with a decisive zzzip.

William stood there, trembling, his fists clenched at his sides. Jason sighed, patting his friend’s shoulder, but William shrugged him off and stormed away into the darkness.

****

Inside the tent, the space was... cozy. Or rather, cramped.

It was meant for two people. Maybe three if they squeezed.

Oliver lay in the middle. To his left was Isolde. To his right, Amy was currently unrolling her sleeping bag, looking triumphant but incredibly nervous.

"You realize," Oliver whispered, staring at the canvas ceiling, "that you just started a war out there."

"Let them be mad," Amy huffed, sitting cross-legged. "I’m not leaving you alone with her."

She shot a glare at Isolde.

Isolde, who was currently lying on her side propped up by an elbow, smirked.

"Oh? You think your presence will stop me?"

Isolde sat up. The tent was dimly lit by a small mana crystal. In the soft blue light, she reached for the hem of her tunic.

"It’s hot in here," she murmured.

She pulled the tunic over her head and tossed it into the corner.

Amy gasped.

Isolde wasn’t wearing a bra. She never did. Her massive, pale breasts spilled out, heavy and soft, the nipples hardening instantly in the cool air.

"Isolde!" Oliver hissed, trying to look away but failing miserably.

"What?" Isolde purred. She crawled over Oliver, straddling his legs, her chest swaying mesmerizingly right in front of his face. "We’re all adults here, aren’t we? If the little Saintess wants to play grown-up, she should get used to the view."

Amy’s face was burning so hot she felt like she might faint. She covered her eyes, but peeked through her fingers. ’They’re huge... even bigger than mine...’

"Oliver," Isolde whispered, grabbing his hands.

She pulled his hands up and pressed them firmly against her chest. She squeezed them together, sandwiching his palms between the soft, warm mounds of flesh.

"Mmm..." Isolde moaned softly, closing her eyes. "Your hands are cold, Master. Warm them up."

She began to rub herself against his palms, the friction sending jolts of pleasure through Oliver. He could feel the weight, the softness, the hard nub of her nipples grazing his thumbs.

"Stop it!" Amy squeaked, lunging forward.

She didn’t pull Isolde off. Instead, driven by a frantic, competitive madness, she grabbed Oliver’s arm.

"Me too!"

She pressed his arm against her own chest—clothed, but soft and heaving with rapid breaths. She hugged his arm tight, burying it in her cleavage.

"I’m soft too!" Amy declared, tears of embarrassment pricking her eyes, but refusing to let go.

Oliver lay there, trapped.

On his left, a naked, ancient princess was using his hands as stress balls for her breasts. On his right, his childhood friend was cuddling his arm to death while glaring daggers at the princess.

’I am going to die,’ Oliver thought, closing his eyes as the scent of lavender and vanilla overwhelmed him. ’But at least I’ll die happy.’

****

The sun rose, piercing the morning mist.

The camp stirred to life. Knights were packing bags, dousing fires.

William sat on a log near the Hero’s fire. He hadn’t slept a wink.

His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with dark circles. He had spent the entire night staring at Oliver’s tent, imagining the worst. Every rustle of fabric, every muffled sound had felt like a dagger in his heart.

"William," Jason said, walking over with two cups of coffee. He sighed, looking at his friend with pity. "You look like hell."

"I’m fine," William rasped, his voice sounding like gravel.

"Let it go, man," Jason advised quietly. "She made her choice. Pushing her will only drive her further away."

"It’s not a choice," William hissed, crushing the cup Jason handed him. Hot coffee spilled over his hand, but he didn’t flinch. "He’s manipulating her. He has to be."

Just then, the flap of Oliver’s tent unzipped.

Oliver stepped out, stretching his back. He looked refreshed, albeit a bit tired around the eyes.

Then Isolde stepped out, looking radiant and smug, her hair perfectly messy.

And finally, Amy crawled out. Her hair was disheveled, her cheeks were flushed a healthy pink, and she was clinging to Oliver’s sleeve with a sleepy, affectionate smile.

The sight broke something inside William.

He stood up, his hand going to his sword hilt.

"William, don’t," Jason warned, stepping in front of him. "We have a dungeon to clear. Don’t start a war before we even see a monster."

William glared at Oliver—a look of pure, unadulterated hatred.

’You’re dead,’ William thought. ’Once we’re in the dark... you’re dead.’

"Move out!" The Knight Captain’s voice boomed.

The expedition to Velanthris continued, marching toward the abyss, with the monsters inside the dungeon waiting for them—and the monsters within the party ready to strike.

****

Not long after the reached their destination. The Velanthris dungeon.

Without further ado they descended.

The teleportation circle hummed with a low, bone-vibrating frequency.

This time, there was no fanfare. No speeches. Just the grim silence of twenty grim-faced individuals standing on the rune-etched platform.

"Coordinates locked," the Head Court Mage announced, his hands glowing with arcane energy. "Floor Twenty-Five. The Checkpoint."

"Activate," Daniel ordered.

The world dissolved in a flash of blue light.

The sensation of weightlessness lasted only a second before gravity slammed back into them. The air changed instantly—from the fresh morning breeze of the capital to the stale, metallic scent of the dungeon.

They materialized in the Safe Zone of the 25th Floor—a large, circular stone chamber lit by eternal torches. This was where they had retreated last time. The scorched marks of their previous panic were still visible on the floor.

"We’re here," Jason grunted, hefting his greatsword.

"Form up," Oliver said, his voice cutting through the hesitation. "Don’t linger. The dungeon knows we’re back."

For once, the Heroes didn’t argue. The memory of their defeat was too fresh.

They moved toward the massive archway that led to the stairs descending to the 26th Floor.

****

The stairs ended, depositing them into a nightmare of geometry.

Floor 26 wasn’t a cavern or a ruin. It was a labyrinth constructed of polished, black obsidian. The walls stretched up fifty feet into darkness, smooth as glass. The floor was tiled in patterns that seemed to shift if you stared at them too long.

There was no straight path. Just a twisting, turning corridor that branched off into darkness every few yards.

"The Whispering Maze," Oliver muttered, checking his map—though he knew the map would change. "Stay close. This floor separates groups by shifting the walls. If you lose visual contact, you’re dead."

"I’ll take point," Jason declared, stepping forward. "My defense is highest."

"No," Oliver stopped him with a hand on his chest. "You’re too loud. This floor reacts to vibration."

Jason glared. "Excu—"

Click.

Under Jason’s heavy sabaton, a tile depressed slightly.

HISSS.

From the walls, hidden nozzles sprayed a jet of green acidic mist.

"Back!" Oliver roared.

He didn’t wait. He grabbed Amy’s waist and yanked her backward. Isolde moved with supernatural grace, dodging effortlessly.

Jason, however, was slow. He raised his shield just in time. The acid hissed against the holy steel, eating into the metal with a sickening sound.

"Shit!" Jason stumbled back, coughing.

"I told you," Oliver said coldly, releasing Amy. "Vibration. Traps. This isn’t a battlefield, Jason. It’s a puzzle."

He looked at the group.

"I take point. Ren covers me for traps. The Knights form a box around the Mages. Heroes, you watch the flanks. Move."

This time, Jason swallowed his pride and fell back.