Chapter 9

When I opened my eyes the next day, it hit me—this was my third day in this hellhole, and somehow, I felt… okay.

Physically, at least.

Don't get me wrong—everything hurt. But considering that the only real exercise I'd gotten in my life was sprinting to the liquor store five minutes before closing, I expected to feel a lot worse.

And yet, here I was. Still standing.

I glanced down at my stomach—still soft, still a little flabby. Damn. If I kept this up, I might actually get in shape. And if that happened? Game over. Forklift certification and abs? I'd be drowning in women.

I was mid-brainrot when my survival instincts kicked in—someone was watching me.

Not in the good way. Not in the "mysterious hot lady across the bar" way.

I looked up.

Alric.

Dude was just sitting there, staring at me. No expression. No words. Just pure, unfiltered observation.

I sighed and pushed myself up, rolling my shoulders.

Alright, creepy old man. You wanna stare? Let's check some numbers.

I pulled up my menu and flicked to my stats.

Yup. Just as I thought.

Stats Overview:Strength (STR): 6 Dexterity (DEX): 4Intelligence (INT): 4Charisma (CHA): 4Vitality (VIT): 4Luck (LCK): 4

Another +1 to Strength.

Not bad. Actually, pretty damn solid.

Before I could get too lost in my own thoughts, my cellmate finally spoke.

"How'd they catch you?"

I looked at him, then took a second to consider my answer. I could lie. Make up some badass story about fighting off ten guards before getting taken down. But screw it. May as well tell the truth.

"They gave me a simple job. Deliver a package. Figured it was just a sketchy side gig, nothing too crazy." I shrugged. "Next thing I know, someone smacks me upside the head, and boom—lights out. Woke up here, ready for my exciting new career in forced labor."

Alric nodded slowly, like that answer didn't surprise him one bit.

"We'll need to talk," he said. "You're one of the stubborn ones. I've been here for months, and anyone who still has the energy to joke after three days is… rare."

Before I could come up with a response, my morning routine kicked off.

Which meant a guard strolled in and whacked me across the ribs with his whip.

I inhaled sharply, sent him the most vile mental insult I could muster—trust me, I had plenty, I used to play League of Legends at Diamond rank—and then got up to start the day.

Mining took place deep inside the cavern. To get there from our cells, we had to march for about two minutes.

What, you thought I was just gonna accept my fate and mine rocks until I died of exhaustion? Hell no.

Of course, looking around too much while we were being escorted was a terrible idea—mostly because the guards loved any excuse to dish out a beating. And I preferred my back not feeling like I had just lost a ten-game ranked streak.

Now that I was getting the hang of swinging this heavy, ungrateful pickaxe, I could actually start paying attention to my surroundings. At first, I thought we were just mining iron ore or something basic, but no—as I kept swinging, chipping away at the rock, I started noticing something else buried beneath the rough outer layers. A faint, glassy sheen.

Diamond.

Hidden under all this worthless stone.

And the more I worked, the more I noticed something else.

The guards had a habit of grouping up in the far-right corner of the cavern, right near a set of doors tucked away in the shadows.

Not the doors we came through.

Which begged the question—what was behind them?

And since I am a simple man, and when I have questions, I Google them—well, guess what? No Google here.

So, I improvised.

I casually set my pickaxe down and strolled toward the nearest guard.

"Hey, boss! Mind if I hit the bathroom?" I asked, my tone all cheerful and innocent.

The guard answered by cracking his whip across my ribs.

I went back to work.

Today was surprisingly uneventful.

Nobody died.

By the end of my "shift," the stinging in my ribs had dulled, the bruises starting to fade. My body was definitely changing—I could feel it. Hell, I'd probably lost a few pounds already. Would've killed for a bag of paprika Lays right about now, but something told me that wasn't on the menu. I considered asking a guard just to see their reaction but decided against it. I'd already been whipped once today—no need to go for a high score.

Speaking of guards, I'd started noticing something weird about the way NPCs worked.

They had names, obviously, but my brain didn't immediately register them unless I really focused—like some kind of built-in "notice me not" field straight out of Harry Potter. Unless I deliberately paid attention, they just existed as Guard, Merchant, or Shady Dude in the Corner.

So, I started experimenting.

A little mental effort, like inspecting an item in a game, and boom—names popped up. It took focus, but it worked. And that's how I found out what to call some of the bastards I hated the most.

One of them? Malcolm.

I, personally, called him Dumbass.

Sweat was pouring off me like I was a goddamn faucet someone forgot to turn off.

THUD. THUD.

Just a little more. One more swing, and this chunk of whatever-the-hell-it-was would finally crack.

THUD.

My arms were shaking. Every muscle in my body screamed at me to stop. But I clenched my teeth and kept going.

"Hey, you!"

I flinched at the voice behind me, turning my head just enough to see who it was.

Richard. One of the nicer guards—if such a thing even existed in this shithole. He motioned for me to join the rest of the prisoners already shuffling toward the exit.

Ah. Finally.

I let out a breath, tossing my pickaxe onto the ground like a piece of garbage I was done with. Then, shaking the exhaustion out of my limbs, I fell in line with the others.

Back to the meal hall.

Back to that watery sludge they had the audacity to call food.

Jesus Christ, I swear to God, if I don't get some real protein soon, I'm gonna start eating rocks just to see if they have any nutritional value.

I grabbed my bowl, sat down at the nearest empty spot, and tried not to look too hard at whatever unidentifiable chunks were floating in the so-called soup.

A moment later, Alric sat down across from me.

Huh. Guess we were officially meal buddies now. If this were the real world, I'd probably be sending him a Facebook friend request.

He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. "Look around. Some of them aren't eating this crap."

I frowned. Mid-scoop, I glanced around without making it obvious.

He was right.

A handful of prisoners had different meals—actual food. Not sludge. Real portions. Some of them even had… was that sausage?!

I blinked. "Wait. What the hell? They get sausage?"

Alric smirked. "Now you're paying attention."

I kept watching, and something finally clicked.

I'd noticed before that some of the prisoners seemed different. Not just physically—some looked healthier, stronger—but socially. Some of them talked with the guards freely, no fear in their body language, no hesitation in their voices.

At first, I'd assumed it was just a fluke. Maybe they'd been here longer. Maybe they had some kind of status I didn't understand yet.

But now? Now it was obvious.

There were ranks in this place.

Not all prisoners were equal. Some had privileges. Some were surviving better than others. And whatever this was—whatever little system was keeping these guys on top—I wasn't part of it.

Not yet.

I sighed and stared down at my bowl.

Well, whatever. Food was food.

I scooped up a spoonful of that god-awful gruel and, with all the passion and longing I had never once given to a woman, shoved it into my mouth.

End of day three, and I'd learned something interesting.

Well—I didn't exactly figure it out. We were walking back to cells after dinner. Alric elbowed me in the ribs, sharp enough to make me grunt, then gave a small nod toward something off to the side.

I followed his hint.

A corridor. Narrow, half-hidden in the gloom. Looked like just another tunnel—except at the very end of it, barely visible through the dust and dim torchlight—

Sunlight.

I almost stopped walking.

So, the exit was right there.

Which meant one of two things.

Either the guards didn't care if we saw it because escaping was impossible…

Or they wanted us to know it was there, just to mess with us.

I clenched my jaw and kept moving, blending back into the slow march of prisoners.

Shadow Land had been a mess since the moment I got here. But now, the map in my head—the one I'd barely started piecing together—felt even more broken.

The slums. The noble district. And then this.

Not just some underground mine. Not just a secret labor camp.

No.

This was the part of the city that wasn't even supposed to exist.

The District of Misery.

When we finally got back to the cell, I pulled up my stats.

Just as I suspected. No strength increase. But if the pattern held, I'd probably get one in the morning.

Which, honestly? Made a lot of sense. Even a sedentary, snack-fueled nerd like me knew the basics—muscles didn't grow while you worked out. First, you had to break them down (aka swinging a pickaxe like a medieval peasant). Then, you had to feed them protein (which I wasn't doing, but let's pretend video game logic ignores that part). And finally, the real magic happened in your sleep—deep REM cycles where your body repaired and rebuilt itself, stronger than before.

So that's why the stat gains happened overnight.

Huh. Interesting.

Out of curiosity, I pulled up my quest log.

Yeah. Nothing new.

Just the same old Survive staring back at me as my main questline. No side missions. No prompts. The quest with Elisabeth? Completed. The whole wolf debacle? Done.

Which meant, for now, this was it. No breadcrumbs, no hidden objectives—just pure, unfiltered suffering.

Great.

I glanced over at Alric. He was sitting against the wall, eyes half-closed like he was either meditating or just too tired to care.

Alright. Time to start grinding this mess.

I'm Lucas. Pro gamer. And this was probably the first time in my life that I'd gone three days in an MMO without hitting level two.

Like some noob waiting for a carry.