CHAPTER 11: PEACE IS A LIE

I didn’t think the sun would feel so illegal.

After ten dungeon floors of fluorescent trauma, collapsing floors, sentient mobs, and a literal HR demon, stepping into daylight felt like being resurrected via vitamin D.

I dropped to the grass and kissed it.

"You good?" Lilith asked, standing over me like a disappointed parole officer.

"No," I said, spitting out a beetle. "But I’m not actively dying, so that’s new."

Behind me, Galrik was trying to tackle a tree. Not for fun. Just because he thought it was looking at him funny.

Mister Fog had wandered off to talk to a butterfly about taxes. Or maybe trauma. With him it’s hard to tell.

We were finally—finally—back in the real world. The dungeon was behind us, the sky was real, and there were birds that didn’t scream in Latin.

The hill we stood on overlooked the town of Bramblehook. Quaint. Peaceful. Smelled like bread and mild economic oppression. A good place to pretend you’re not broken inside.

Lilith crossed her arms. "So. What now?"

"I don’t know," I said. "But whatever it is, I’d like to do it without nearly being turned into spaghetti by clown cultists."

We made our way down into Bramblehook. People stared.

Not in fear. Not in awe.

In... confusion.

I guess it’s not every day four scorched, blood-splattered, mildly insane weirdos wander out of the woods dragging ten levels’ worth of trauma behind them.

A baker squinted. "You guys adventurers?"

"No," I said quickly.

"Yes," Lilith said, flexing.

"I’m a cactus," Mister Fog added, offering the baker a coupon to "THE FOGGY FUTURE: Palms Read, Regrets Worsened."

Galrik kicked over a mailbox and screamed, "I HAVE RETURNED FROM THE PIT!"

So. Yeah. Blending in? Off to a strong start.

We found an inn.

Not a haunted one. Not cursed. Just... normal. And I could’ve wept.

The Crooked Egg.

The sign was just a big wooden egg with a smug face. I don’t know why that made me feel safe. Maybe because it didn’t whisper forbidden knowledge.

Inside, it was warm. Cozy. Quiet.

We paid with a small piece of dungeon loot (Mister Fog had turned a mimic’s tooth into a coin somehow), and the innkeeper didn’t ask questions. Bless her soul.

We were led to a suite with real beds. Multiple. With sheets. And zero screaming portals to grief realms.

Galrik immediately belly-flopped onto one and fell unconscious.

Lilith took a corner and started sharpening her daggers like it was therapy. (It probably was.)

Mister Fog sat by the window, muttering. The butterfly from earlier had followed him. It was wearing a tiny hat now. Don’t ask.

And me?

I stared at the bed.

A soft, honest-to-god mattress. Not made of rocks. Not moving. Just... bed.

I crawled onto it like a man escaping war.

And for once—

Just once—

I fell asleep without fearing death, betrayal, or spontaneous musical numbers.

And then I dreamed.

Of the dungeon. Of Floor Ten.

Of Craig, the HR demon, leaning over a desk, whispering:

"You’ll be back..."

I woke up screaming.

Lilith threw a dagger at my head.

I ducked.

Just barely.

"...Thanks," I said.

She grunted. "Don’t scream unless it’s mortal."

Mister Fog handed me a dreamcatcher he’d made from lint, a fork, and his own hair. "It hungers for nightmares."

I threw it out the window.

It climbed back in.

I screamed again.

The next morning—I think it was morning, but time still felt like a prank—I woke up in a cold sweat, tangled in the bedsheets like a corpse in a haunted burrito. Galrik was sleep-punching the wall beside me and muttering something about "vengeance against the salad."

I tiptoed out of bed.

Lilith was still sharpening knives, now with her eyes closed. Honestly, I think that’s how she meditates.

Mister Fog was nowhere to be seen, but someone had drawn eldritch diagrams in jam across the floor. There was a note:

"Gone to procure more jam. The spirits are hungry. –M.F."

Great.

Still, despite the residual dread clinging to me like mold, things were... nice. Quiet. No alarms. No boss fights. No metaphysical screaming from beyond the veil.

I went downstairs.

The innkeeper—a round woman named Madam Bristle—offered me a cup of something called "Peaceberry Tea."

"Cures nerves," she said. "And hemorrhoids."

I drank it in one gulp. Couldn’t risk either.

Then I just... sat. In the common room. At a wooden table. Like a normal person.

For fifteen whole minutes, I felt like I wasn’t being hunted by the divine consequences of my own cowardice.

Then the door slammed open.

A man burst in, ragged, wild-eyed, and clutching a scroll.

"IS THE PARTY OF FLOOR TEN HERE?!"

I stood up, about to lie.

Lilith descended the stairs, already cracking her neck.

Galrik followed, shirtless, holding a ladle like a weapon.

Mister Fog came in through the chimney. Covered in jam. "Did someone say our name in the tongue of prophecy?"

The messenger took a shaky step back. "T-the Royal Capital... requests your presence. There’s been... talk. Rumors. What you did. You’re being summoned."

I panicked. "Us? No. We’re... uh. Not that party. We’re the—uh—Floor Nine Crew. Yeah. Real low-tier. We got stuck in a gelatinous cube for like three days."

Lilith pulled out a blade. "You sure you don’t mean us?"

The messenger nodded quickly. "You’re them. The necroclown slayers. The therapists of trauma. The victors of the grief floor. The survivors of HR."

Shit.

I sat back down. "One. Fucking. Day. That’s all I wanted."

We didn’t leave immediately. Lilith needed to "interrogate" the messenger (with snacks). Mister Fog claimed the jam spirits required a "divination dance" before any journey. Galrik kept asking if the Royal Capital had a gym.

I, meanwhile, returned to bed.

Just for a bit. Just to feel like I still had autonomy over my life.

I stared at the ceiling and whispered, "Maybe they’ll forget about us."

Outside, a crowd had started to gather.

Apparently word of our return had spread.

There was a bard composing a ballad called "The Coward King of Floor Ten." I knew it was about me because he rhymed "fear piss" with "near miss."

And so the day ended not with peace, but with a horse-drawn carriage pulling up outside the inn, lined with royal banners and official guards.

Cecil "Definitely Not Ready for This" Graves had one more night to pretend he wasn’t being launched face-first into another mess.

But the bed was soft.

And I’d stolen three Peaceberry teabags.

So really, I was winning.