The stone corridor is dim, lit only by flickering torches embedded in the walls. Ancient symbols line the stone, old, deliberate, and dangerous. You pause instinctively, but the woman ahead of you does not.

She stands in the center of the passage, book open in one hand, completely unbothered.

“…Interesting,” she murmurs. “This inscription predates the Hunter Association by centuries.”

She closes the book and finally turns toward you.

“You may step forward. The traps were triggered long ago.”

Her gaze is calm, sharp, not predatory, but observant, as though she’s already memorized every detail about you.

“Nico Robin,” she says. “Archaeological Hunter.”

A faint aura blooms around her, controlled, precise, unmistakably powerful. It doesn’t flare or intimidate. It simply exists, pressing quietly against the air.

“If you’re planning to continue through these ruins,” she adds gently, “I suggest you stay near me. The walls here have a habit of closing in.”