Chapter 125: Underground Vault [1]

We continued to advance toward the hidden vault on the third level of the relic chamber.

The narrow stone passage, which had felt like squeezing through the throat of some ancient beast, was slowly widening the deeper we went. Shadows clung to the walls like thick cobwebs, but the air didn’t feel old—just heavy. Like it knew something we didn’t.

The only sounds were our footsteps and the quiet rhythm of our breathing echoing through the tunnel.

Then, I heard her voice.

"...It’s strange."

Alice spoke softly, almost to herself, but in this silence, even whispers carried.

I didn’t stop, but I slowed down and glanced over my shoulder.

"What is, My Lady?"

Her crimson eyes met mine, sharp and watchful even in the dim light. She kept her voice low, as though the walls might be listening.

"It’s been a while since we started descending... and we haven’t encountered the guardian spirit."

I frowned at her words.

She was right.



This was the hidden vault of the Draken family—one of the most secure places in the entire duchy. It was supposed to be protected by a guardian spirit, a being bound to the place by powerful ancestral magic. And yet...

We had made it this far without even a hint of resistance.

I could accept passing through the second level unchallenged—after all, I had won the Duke’s personal permission by claiming victory in the [Grand Northern Martial Tournament].

But this?

No guardian. No trials. Not even a whisper of magical interference.

It didn’t sit right.

’Could it be... the guardian spirit is stationed deeper—on the third level itself?’

Suddenly, Hans’s words came back to me, right before we stepped inside the vault:

—Don’t worry. The guardian spirit is away for the moment.

At the time, I hadn’t thought much of it. But now?

It seemed that "away for the moment" meant exactly what it sounded like.

I exchanged a glance with Alice, and from the look in her eyes, I knew she was thinking the same thing.

This silence wasn’t comforting.

It was heavy. Ominous.

"...Could you tell me more about the guardian of the relic vault, My Lady?"

All we knew so far was that the guardian was vulnerable to stealth. Beyond that, we were stepping into the unknown.

And heading into the unknown without information was practically suicide.

Alice’s insight could make the difference between life and death.

"The guardian... is a Wampa."

"...Pardon?"

I blinked. That answer threw me completely off.

A Wampa?

One of the three great beasts of the northern regions?

Like Snow Lion that I and Alice killed.

A Wampa monster infamous for its brutal savagery, uncontrollable temperament, and complete lack of human speech?

That thing was the guardian?

A mix of confusion and reluctant admiration stirred within me.

"To entrust the vault to something so volatile... That’s quite the gamble. One loud noise and the whole place could come crashing down with the relics."

Alice narrowed her eyes slightly.

"I can guess what you’re really worried about."

"I’m simply concerned for the safety of the Draken family’s treasured heirlooms—as a devoted servant, of course."

Especially the ones I plan to swipe.

She gave me a look. A pointed, doubtful one. I didn’t flinch.

"The relics are safe," she said flatly. "While Wampa is a beast in appearance, he’s more spirit than monster. He doesn’t speak, but he can communicate by writing on the ground."

"Huh..."

For someone who grew up associating Wampas with frozen limbs and torn-off faces, that was unexpectedly... civilized.

"My father once told me our ancestor tamed it. Since then, it’s protected the vault faithfully, generation after generation."

Just then, a familiar chime echoed in my ears.

—Ding.

-----

◇ Notification ◇

▣ The true identity of the guardian beast protecting the Draken family’s vault has been revealed: Wampa, the Frostborne Sentinel.

▣ Vault access protocols have updated.

▣ The guardian spirit is aligned with the bloodline of House Draken and views direct descendants favorably. Proceed accordingly.

-----

I blinked, momentarily stunned by the system’s message flashing before me like divine text etched into the air.

Wampa.

The Frostborne Sentinel... the name alone carried weight. I suddenly felt very glad Alice was here.

I stole a glance at her.

She was inspecting the stone wall now, her fingers trailing across an etched crest almost buried in grime. She didn’t seem to notice anything strange—just calm, watchful, calculating as always.

She didn’t get the message.

Right.

Alice didn’t have a system.

She didn’t see what I saw.



"...My Lady," I said slowly, "does Wampa respond differently depending on who approaches?"

She raised a brow at the sudden question. "He’s cautious with outsiders. But if someone bears the Draken blood, he’ll hold back—observe, rather than attack. At least, that’s what I’ve heard. Why?"

I shrugged, playing it off. "Just curious. Figured I should know who I’ll be groveling to if he shows up."

That earned me the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth. Not quite a smile, but close.

"That depends on how much you value your limbs," she said, continuing her examination of the wall.

I swallowed. Noted.

Meanwhile, the words from the system kept repeating in my mind like a chant: Aligned with the bloodline... proceed accordingly.

Which meant if I stayed close to Alice, I might—might—avoid getting flattened like a bug under a hammer.

"I’ll follow your lead then," I said, keeping my tone light. "Not that I don’t trust myself. I just trust your bloodline more."

Alice glanced at me, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "You’re being unusually agreeable."

I offered a modest bow. "My survival instincts are sharp."

She turned away, but I could hear the faintest hum of amusement in her breath.

....But what I said is true.

I was an outsider here. So if that guardian spirit—or whatever beefed-up basement boss lived down here—caught a whiff of me?

Yeah. I’d be squashed like a tomato dropped from the fifth floor.

And I’d really, really like to avoid that particular fate.

So, I stuck close to Alice. Very close.

"Let’s go," she said, taking the lead.

That didn’t mean I trailed behind like some coward. No, no. I walked right beside her, thank you very much. For companionship. Solidarity. Moral support.

Definitely not because of some irrational fear of being flattened into paste by a mythical watchdog in my own basement.

...I mean, sure, I tried raiding this vault multiple times back in the game.

I remembered the layout like the back of my hand. Which corners to avoid. Which statues secretly screamed. Which tiles triggered a full spiritual exorcism of everyone in the room.

If we played this smart, we’d be fine.

"How did I end up doing this in my own home’s basement..." Alice muttered besides me, and I barely held back a snort.

So even the Ice Queen grumbled like a tired office worker sometimes.

Who knew?

That was what made this version of Alice so refreshing. Back in the game, she was all cold perfection—icy glares, curt orders, a permanent wind machine making her cape billow dramatically.

But now? Here she was, muttering like a tired intern working unpaid overtime under some dungeon-crawling overlord.

Honestly? I liked this version of her. The contrast made her more... human. Endearing, even.

A charm of reversal, as they say.

"We’re about to hit the first tricky alley," I whispered.

Now, let me tell you something about stealth.

People think it’s all about crouching, breathing like a Buddhist monk, and slathering yourself in mud like some jungle ninja. Sure, that stuff helps—but the real secret?

Don’t get caught.

By any means necessary. Whether that means ducking into barrels, bribing a rat, or pretending to be a decorative statue—if you’re not seen, you win.

"That is..." Alice started, her voice catching as we turned a corner.

"Shh," I hushed, eyes fixed ahead. "That must be the sword your ancestors used, Lady."

Now, the third floor of the vault was different.

Instead of glass display cases or floating magical pedestals, it was just an open clearing.

And smack in the middle of it? A sword.

Not just any sword—the sword. The one that made Arthurian legends look underwhelming.

Stuck in a chunk of rock like it was auditioning for some royal destiny, it exuded cold air and the smug aura of something that knew it was important.

’Ah yes, this bastard again,’ I thought bitterly.

The number of times I’d fallen for that blade back in the game? Embarrassing.

It sat there like a neon sign: "I am THE treasure. Come, brave player. Loot me."

And it wasn’t even lying! The sword had lore—real lore. It was used by Duke Draken himself. Every duke and demon whispered about it in the story.

A legendary artifact. Practically oozing narrative weight.

Naturally, I had to have it.

I remembered the first time I made it down here in the game. I’d danced past death traps, outwitted magical patrols, narrowly avoided being possessed by a haunted painting—and there it was.

Glorious.

I practically skipped toward it and grabbed the hilt.

Then the screen flashed with a message.

---

[Equip Restriction]



[You are not worthy.]

---

I barely had time to curse before the guardian deity (or maybe the angry ghost of Duke Draken himself) personally delivered my game over like it was pizza night.

Boom. Deleted.

That sword? Total scam.

Looked like treasure. Acted like treasure. Was, in fact, a deadly ego test wrapped in shiny metal.

And here we were again.

"Hey, My Lady Alice," I whispered, stepping away from the sword like it was contagious. "Just a heads up... that thing has opinions. The moment you touch it, you either become a hero or a pancake."

But she wasn’t besides me, The next thing I know she was standing in front of sword.

"What the Fuck?"

I cursed at her, for the first time since I Transmigrated into this game.

I hope she didn’t hear me.