Chapter 1: Debts and Desperation
Chapter 1: Debts and Desperation
Below me, the apartment reeked of damp plaster and recycled air whenever the wheezing air-con lurched to life—this dawn was no exception. I cracked one eye, noting the pale Perth sunrise slipping between shredded venetians, and groaned as my battered holo-watch buzzed insistently for the third time. Another double shift down, another handful of dollars scraped together, another twenty-four hours closer to that deadline that threatened to snap us like brittle twigs if a miracle didn't arrive soon.
Dragging myself upright, I slid my legs off the fold-out sofa—its springs whined reproachfully under my weight. My steel-toe boots slapped the vinyl floor with a hollow thud; red laterite dust from yesterday's trench clung stubbornly to the soles, exhaling a sour, metallic tang of iron oxide and sweat—an unlovely perfume I'd learned to wear without shame. I shrugged out of my hi-vis jacket, tossed it over the lone kitchen chair, and arched until my back popped.
When I cracked the fridge door, it rattled—a lone carton of long-life milk rattled across the shelf, half a jar of Vegemite glinted in gloom, and two wrinkled apples sat miserably on the bottom. I plucked the apples, their skin puckered, and sliced them onto chipped plates, the knife's edge scraping a thin, ringing note. From the top bunk, Mitya snored in ragged breaths, one arm flung out like a discarded rope; below, Anna sat cross-legged, her algebra workbook illuminated by the tablet's pale glow. She glanced up, eyes bleary yet defiant.
"You're late again, Kolya," she hissed, voice rough with sleep.
"Night shift ran over. Inspector insisted on a soil report before they poured concrete." I set a plate beside her textbook, its crisp apple scent cutting through stale air. "Breakfast of champions."
"Two apples for three people isn't breakfast."
I shrugged, leaning against the counter. "We're champions on a cut-weight program."
A ghost of a smile flickered on her lips before her gaze drifted to the cyclone of envelopes stacked on the kitchenette counter—red type screaming FINAL NOTICE and IMMEDIATE ACTION REQUIRED. The latest bore Cygnet Finance's polite ibis logo, wings poised to strike.
"Don't worry about those," I lied, throat tight. (I've got a plan—famous last words.)
"Does the plan involve sleeping?"
"Eventually," I said, ruffling her dark hair and earning a swift swat. "Go wake Mitya. Bus leaves in twenty."
While Anna shook her brother awake, I jammed the envelopes into a drawer. One slipped free, flaunting its cold ink: OUTSTANDING BALANCE – AUD 38,750; MINIMUM PAYMENT NEXT WEEK – AUD 4,500. My pulse thudded.
Uncle Arkady had sworn poker tables were a sure thing—"One hot streak and we're golden," he'd promised before vanishing into suburban grey exile, leaving his marker like a noose around my neck. Now Luca "the Magpie" Spadaro wanted his due, and his heavies plucked wings without mercy.
I rushed through a freezing shower—water a degree above shivering—and pulled on yesterday's cargo pants before herding the kids toward the bus. Mitya trailed, rubbing sleep from his eyes; Anna looped her arm through mine.
"You'll be okay today?" she asked, voice small.
I squeezed her hand. "I always am."
Her look said liar, but she let it go. Outside, eucalyptus mingled with diesel fumes under the rising sun. I watched until the bus's red taillights faded, then set off toward Downey & Sons' skeletal civic centre five blocks east.
By the time I clocked in—my thumbprint failing twice thanks to thickened calluses—Foreman Jacobs was already barking orders. My crew's task: survey the footing trench before they poured. Simple enough, if your brain weren't swimming in sleep debt.
The trench lay like a wound in the earth. I crouched, scooped damp soil, and rubbed it between thumb and forefinger—sandy loam shot with quartz, enough clay to hold shape if rain stayed away. Thirty centimetres deeper, the hue shifted to dusky ochre—laterite hinting at ironstone, hallmark of the ancient Yilgarn craton. Solid promise. Weight-bearing fact.
I scribbled notes, mind drifting back to field trips along the Darling Scarp—mapping strike ridges with Professor Dimitrova, dreaming of a doctorate. That life died when Mum and Dad's ute kissed a road train outside Geraldton. After that, dreams meant nothing—two kids needed uniforms and rent.
Jacobs signed off without reading. Figures. As I trudged toward the portable office for smoko, a black SUV rolled on—its tires crunching gravel—then halted. The driver's door opened, and Vinny "Vee" Leone stepped out: shoulders broad as an anvil, hair gleaming like knife-blades. He draped a silver-magpie lapel pin over his vest, grin spreading.
"Morning, Kolya," he purred, voice sticky with threat.
"Vee. Site's restricted." My heart jerked.
"I'll be quick." He flipped out a folded ledger. "Payment schedule. You missed yesterday."
"I paid interest last Friday."
He tapped "interest" with polished nail. "Interest, yes. Principal, no. Four-and-a-half grand by next Thursday, cash. Otherwise…" He mimed a bird pecking seed. "Someone loses a shiny eye."
My throat went dry. "I'll have it."
He arched an eyebrow. "How?"
"Side contracts—consulting gig. Geology."
"Don't care if you're licking gold off the Queen's slippers. Money's money." He shoved the ledger into my vest. "Next Thursday, 6 p.m., same café. Don't make me ruin that pretty face."
He melted back into the SUV, dust spiraling in his wake. My stomach churned. A fortnight of double shifts wouldn't scrape together that sum. I leaned against lumber stacks, breathing panic and sawdust; overhead, a lone crow cawed—mocking the maths.
No sooner had I swallowed my dread than smoko time arrived. Alone on a cement block, I scrolled job boards on my cracked holo-slab—nothing paid fast enough. Then an ad flickered in the corner: ENDLESS WORLDS – GET PAID TO PLAY! REAL MONEY EXCHANGE. MINE, CRAFT, PROFIT. An avatar hefting a pickaxe sent sparks into a virtual forge.
I tapped the link; forums burst alive with testimonials, spreadsheets, bank screenshots. One post froze me: "Cleared $40 000 in three months grinding ore. Ask me how." My head buzzed—scams raced across the net like cane toads, but these threads crackled with mid-tier players hashing out ore prices, exchange rates, tax tips.
Could virtual mining vanquish real debts? I'd banged rocks in Kalgoorlie for fun as a kid. Maybe dusty know-how could mint digital gold.
By knock-off, a bruised sky trailed me home. Anna and Mitya sat at the kitchen table—math problems and cereal bowls clinking in harmony. I managed a grin and produced a bag of fifty-cent rolls scavenged from the bakery bin. Not a feast, but to them, it was a banquet.
When the kids finally slept, I fired up Mum's laptop—hinges cracked, battery dead but still breathing on mains. I dove into Endless Worlds docs: fully immersive VR, 1:1 time dilation, an economy pegged to OrbCoin. Exchange hovered at one gold to fifty Aussie cents. No class bans—beginners could mine copper for steady cash.
But rigs cost three grand new—beyond reach. Used pods popped up occasionally—battered, but under a few hundred if you didn't mind quirks. I scoured listings until a lead appeared: NERVE-LINK V3 POD – MINOR GEL LEAK, $450 O.N.O, PICK UP TONIGHT, SUBIACO. Photos showed scuffs but pristine jack ports.
At 21:12 I checked my bank app—$512. Anna's bus top-up would wait. With trembling thumbs, I messaged: Is it still available? I can pay cash tonight.
Seconds later: Yes. Bring muscle, it's heavy.
Under sodium streetlights, I pedaled fifteen kilometres to Subiaco's terrace-lined streets, sprinklers hissing, magpies roosting. The seller, a wiry uni kid, helped wrestle the pod into my bike wagon.
"Why so cheap?" I asked, handing over crumpled bills.
He shrugged. "Dad cut my stipend. Need beer money. Works fine—just smells like saline. Clean with vinegar."
By midnight, the pod sat in our lounge—Mitya stirred.
"Is that a spaceship?" he mumbled.
"Something like that. Go back to sleep, zhenshchina-muha."
He giggled and drifted off. Anna appeared next, her hair haloed by the screen's glow.
"What did you buy?"
"Investment."
Her frown cut deep. "With what money?"
"My emergency fund."
"And this isn't an emergency?"
"It's the tool to fix the emergency." I peeled away foam. "Tomorrow, while you're at school, I test it."
"You need sleep, Kolya."
"I'll sleep in the pod—time flows same as here. Saves a mattress."
She huffed but helped me siphon gel, patch the leak with aquarium sealant, and wipe the interior spotless. By dawn's first smear across the windows, I collapsed on the sofa, eyes fixed on the ceiling fan's slow spin. Virtual rocks or real debts—which would crack first? Forums promised hope. Yet every gambler believes the next hand is salvation, and Arkady believed in luck. I believed in ore—crystal lattices, hydrothermal veins, specific gravity. If Endless Worlds mirrored real mineralogy, I might outmine any troll.
After three hours of stolen sleep, the alarm shrilled. Anna and Mitya were already dressed; bowls clinked. I pressed kisses to their foreheads. "Nachos for dinner," I vowed, shepherding them into the dawn.
Back inside, I bolted every lock, unpacked the VR harness, and slipped into the pod. Nutrient gel hissed as the lid sealed; electrodes clicked onto scalp nodes. A low hum thrummed behind my eyes.
NERVE-LINK V3 – CALIBRATION COMPLETE. WARNING: USER FATIGUE LEVEL CRITICAL. CONTINUE? Y/N
"Da," I whispered.
Darkness unfurled into a starburst—an ink-black void pierced by a floating menu:
ENDLESS WORLDS – CREATE ACCOUNT OR LOGIN
I hesitated, recalling Vinny's ledger and Anna's worried stare.
"For them," I breathed, and selected CREATE ACCOUNT.
The void flared white, and at last hope felt as solid as mined ore.
Chapter 2: Logging In – A Risky Avatar
The pod lid whispered shut with a dentist-drill hiss, and darkness folded around me like a cool blanket of saline and plastic. I inhaled slowly, trying to unclench every muscle before the gel's faint ozone tang chased out the damp-plaster stench of my flat. One deep breath, two—then the neural mesh pulsed against my scalp, nudging half my weariness aside with a wash of diagnostic lights visible only to me.
≪NERVE-LINK V3 — Baseline Sync 97 %≫
WARNING: User fatigue level—CRITICAL. Prolonged immersion may cause disorientation.
Continue? [Y/N]
"Da," I muttered, voice taut. The pod accepted my choice with a soft chime, and the darkness resolved into a black void laced with faint green lattice lines—the system shell. A single white rectangle bloomed at its center:
Create Account Login
My fingertip—or perhaps just intention—tapped Create Account, and UI ribbons unfurled like origami, wrapping me in the polite efficiency of a galactic bank form.
Choose Handle:
I hesitated. Kolya was too real—too traceable if Vinny's crew ever scoured these circuits. StoneReader sounded academic. I needed something plain, forgettable:
Orefinder
Accept.
A rotating carousel of idealized avatars swept past: golden-haired paladins flexing polished plate, willowy elf mages crackling with nebular sparks, orc war-chiefs roaring for blood. I flicked past them, faster and faster, until at the dusty tail-end a squat gnome shuffled into view—apron stained, goggles perched on a nose like chipped granite.
GNOME — Artificer Specialization
Difficulty: HARD MODE – Deprecated
Trade Bonus: +15 % Mining, +10 % Engineering
Community Rating: ★☆☆☆☆
A little red triangle blinked by the stats—Are you sure? Gnomes lacked combat perks and most storyline quests. Perfect. Let the swords-and-fireball crowd chase glory; I needed ore, not orcs.
"Accept," I said.
A mannequin version of the gnome materialized, mottled grey under harsh light. Sliders appeared: height, build, hair, eyes, jawline, symmetry, complexion—and, curiously, Base Charisma: 14 (High), read-only. Had the pod's photogrammetry loaned me some of its own metrics? High charisma on a miner was wasted weight—dangerous if it drew attention.
I dragged each slider toward drab: buzz-cut hair, enlarged ears, a grease smear across the cheek. Still, the preview clung to an undercurrent of rakish charm, like a gremlin cosplaying a runway model. Shrug. If the system wanted me handsome, so be it.
I toggled clothes—rough canvas coat, worn tool belt, hobnailed boots, and nixed any bright hues. Confirm.
The mannequin shimmered and a provisional character sheet crackled into place:
┌─ CHARACTER SHEET (Provisional) ──────────────────────────┐
│ Handle: Orefinder Race: Gnome Class: Artificer │
│ Level 0 │
│ STR 8 AGI 12 VIT 11 INT 15 PER 15 LCK 9 │
│ Perks: Low-Light Vision (Racial) │
└────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
Good spread—low Strength but high Perception: exactly the sensorium a prospector craved. For a heartbeat, the Ore Sense ??? (UNREGISTERED) perk glimmered beneath "Low-Light Vision" before vanishing like a skipped film frame. Ghost feature or lag? Probably nothing. I dismissed the sheet.
Select Starting Region
A holographic Dyson Sphere unfurled—its inner surface tessellated into continents, seas, and gleaming archipelagos. My gaze locked on the Crooked Mountains: a charcoal skein draping the horizon beneath the miniature sun. Mineral density: High. Player population: Low. Perfect.
"Accept," I whispered.
"Content disclaimer," the system intoned. A fresh window scrolled into view:
By entering Endless Worlds you agree to Orbital Dreams Pty Ltd Terms of Service.
Gameplay may affect neural-linked emotional states.
Orbital Dreams reserves the right to adjust, suspend, roll back, or terminate character data in response to anomalous metrics.
"Anomalous metrics" echoed in my mind—probably just boilerplate, though my phantom Ore Sense perk flickered at the memory. I clicked Accept.
The copper iris of the UI widened, flooding me with incandescent light; my stomach lurched as though an elevator had dropped a floor before the brakes caught. Then, weightless, I fell upward into…
{LOADING… 1 %}
A wind-blown hiss replaced the gel's whisper, and distant echoes drifted through my audio channel—clinks of picks, the thud of hammers, the creak of hoisted ropes. The loading bar crawled:
5 %
9 %
A crackle spat through the speakers like an old shortwave. Mid-load, a secondary prompt ruptured across the viewport:
Extensible Charisma parameter exceeds racial threshold.
Applying balancing modifier...
<>
"What?" I tried to tap the message, but it dissolved as the bar leapt to 14 %.
(Fine—debuff or no, I just needed copper.)
20 %
32 %
Memories surfaced with each tick: Vee's silver-magpie pin, Anna's worried stare, Mitya's sleepy question—"Is that a spaceship?" My pulse hammered behind the visor, pulse racing faster than the progress bar.
61 %
78 %
A sudden SYSTEM ALERT flashed:
DATASTREAM / M 289 / Ω
SIGNAL LOST
Then back to loading: 90 %, 98 %, and at last—
100 %
The void shattered into color so bright I raised an arm instinctively. Crisp mountain air bitten with quartz dust and cedar smoke washed across my cheeks. I stood on a stone-flagged outcrop jutted from a sheer cliff, boots new but weighty. Above, the metallic-turquoise sky arced around a thumb-sized sun, its aurora veils dancing with silent majesty.
Wind tugged at my canvas coat; somewhere below, a cataract thundered into a hidden ravine. Chains clinked in the distance, voices drifted upslope.
A chime bloomed:
[YOU HAVE ENTERED: CROOKED MOUNTAINS – ROOKERY PLATEAU (SAFE ZONE)]
Weather: Clear, 6 °C
Local time: 12:14
I flexed my fingers—no ache, just the reassuring hum of neural feedback. My HUD icon pulsed: Press to view basic controls. I snorted; forty-plus hours of RPG muscle memory meant I knew locomotion, inventory, and map by heart. Still, I tapped it, clearing the blinking arrow.
A tutorial card hovered: locomotion gestures, inventory shortcuts, map commands—vanilla stuff. I flicked it closed.
Another prompt drifted before me: Starter Package Unclaimed. Open now?
"Yes," I answered without hesitation.
With a spark and soft jingle, three items materialized at my feet: a Wooden Pickaxe (Durability 30/30, +5 % Mining Speed), a Cloth Rucksack (30 kg capacity), and 5 Loaves of Hardtack (Restores 50 Stamina over 30 s). Each item pinged into my inventory:
[Loot Acquired: Wooden Pickaxe ×1]
[Loot Acquired: Cloth Rucksack ×1]
[Loot Acquired: Hardtack ×5]
A weathered wooden signpost pointed down a winding path etched into the cliff, letters glowing white: Beginner's Village →. Footsteps crunched behind me—deliberate, steady. I turned.
An NPC dwarf climbed the switchbacks, beard braided in triple locks, iron spectacles perched precariously on his bulbous nose. His tunic bore the faded emblem of the Miners' Guild.
"Ah, fresh blood at last!" he rumbled, voice like gravel settling. "Name's Gus—Old Gus to most. You the new rock-biter they mentioned?"
I tilted my head, surprised by the lip-sync precision of his text-to-speech. "Call me Orefinder."
He surveyed me, then chuckled. "Gnome, eh? Not many of your lot left—most took cushy guild seats when the brass bowed out. You here to push a pick or sightsee?"
I hefted the wooden pickaxe; its familiar weight settled doubts. "Mine, smelt, sell."
"That's the spirit." He tapped a low-tech wrist slate; a quest pane hovered before my eyes:
┌─ QUEST OFFER: 'Cut Your Teeth' ─────────────────────────────┐
│ Objective: Mine 10 Copper Ore from Tunnel #3 │
│ Reward: 300 XP • 1 Silver • Old Gus's Beginner Pick (Q 8) │
│ Note: Copper nodes glow green for new miners. │
│ Failure: None │
└────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
"Accept?" Gus asked, brow arched.
I didn't hesitate. "Accept."
He nodded, rocking on his heels. "Tunnel Three's that way. Mind your footing—copper likes to crumble. Bring your haul to me, and we'll weigh it."
"Got it," I said, shouldering my rucksack as excitement and desperation knotted in my gut.
As he stomped back up the path, muttering about rookies who couldn't spot galena, I drew a long breath of mountain air—each inhale a promise, each exhale a challenge. The path wound downward through lichen-blotched granite and pine stumps jutting like broken tusks. Dust motes swirled at my boots, and somewhere beyond the next bend, copper's green-gold glimmer waited.
A tremor of anticipation prickled my spine—instinct, or maybe that phantom perk flexing behind the HUD. Either way, I tightened my grip on the pickaxe and stepped forward, every echo of the ledger's cold ink fading behind the rumble of new adventure.
Time to earn my first silver.
Chapter 3: Tutorial in the Crooked Mountains
Cold sunlight slanted across granite slabs as my boots crunched on the frost-etched trail—momentarily I forgot the pod, the damp apartment, the ledger's cold weight back home. A wind sluiced down from peaks curling impossibly upward toward the sphere's distant ceiling, carrying a metallic tang of sulphur-rich stone and a ghost of ozone. Somewhere below, hammers rang out in dwarven cadence—ping-ping-clunk—like a forge marking the mountain's heartbeat. Six degrees Celsius, the HUD whispered; my breath bloomed in quicksilver plumes.
No sooner had I rounded the first switchback than the path squeezed between quartz ribs. Veins of malachite shot through the rock like green lightning—proof that copper lurked close. Habit pressed thumb to forefinger in a phantom survey check (old reflex from better days), but the only grit I felt was sim-air and trembling nerves.
My quest tracker pulsed into view:
┌─ Quest: Cut Your Teeth ─────────────────────┐
│ Mine Copper Ore in Tunnel #3 0 / 10 │
│ Return to Old Gus for payment. │
└────────────────────────────────────────────┘
Simple enough: swing, haul, coin. But family math echoed behind my eyes—ten ore nets one silver, fifty Aussie cents. Nine thousand nods of copper to make Vinny vanish, not counting interest. Better tools, richer veins, and a dash of luck would have to narrow that gulf. First silver, though—first blood.
The trail kinked again, spilling me onto a ledge above a timbered adit mouth. A hand-painted sign read TUNNEL #3 – BEGINNER OPERATION, its letters peeling. A rickety cart blocked half the entrance, wheels crusted in rust; beside it, a coal-braiser lantern guttered, throwing wavering shadows across plank supports.
"Looks quiet," I muttered.
A crystal-chime ping answered:
[Environmental Notice: Structural Integrity 78 % – minor collapse risk.]
Helpful. I ducked inside. The air chilled two degrees; my breath plumed thicker. Tunnel walls glistened where runoff had frozen into translucent sheets, each foothold echoing with a damp thunk.
I tapped low-light vision. Grays deepened, edges sharpened, and faint ember-glows traced copper seams behind the rock—a cheat compared to naked eyes, but I'd take every advantage. Slinging the wooden pick across my shoulder, I pressed deeper.
By the time I reached a fork ten metres in, the right branch beckoned with hack-marks and warm lantern light—cleared by yesterday's rookies. The left branch, half-filled with slumped rubble, promised untouched veins. Profit lived where others feared to tread. I stepped left.
Slate slabs crackled underfoot as I crouched, palm flat against the wall. Quartz lenses, oxidized halos, tiny chalcopyrite sparks—a miner's tea-leaf reading. Beneath the wet-stone musk, something tugged at my mind (could've been that phantom Ore Sense perk). South-west, downslope. Only one way to find out.
Time to earn rent.
My first swing rang like a distant bell. Chips scattered; the HUD flickered a progress bar: Copper Node Integrity 97 %. Fourth strike, hairline fractures webbed. On the sixth, a fist-sized chunk tore free—half malachite, half copper bloom.
[+1 Copper Ore]
A grin cracked me open. I stowed the nugget—weight: 0.7 kg. Nine to go.
Muscles settled into the meditative rhythm I knew from lab cores and Kalgoorlie quarries: observe, angle, strike, twist, collect. Notifications stitched across my vision:
[Mining +1 → 2]
[Mining +1 → 3]
Skill creeping already. Good.
Half an hour later, my pack groaned at 7 / 10 ore when the directional itch thrummed louder—a heartbeat beneath my skull. I followed it down a side slit barely wider than my frame, coat sleeves scraping granite. Thirty metres in, the lantern's glow vanished; only low-light sight guided me.
There, the wall shimmered emerald under the filter. I pressed a gloved finger to its pulse—stone vibrating like distant thunder. Copper, sure, but also…movement. My pick lifted, mind racing.
A chirr cracked the silence. Shadows erupted: winged shapes skittered past my ear, shrieking. Cave Spryte, the compendium murmured—level 2 nuisance mob, toxin scratch. My chest tightened as more silhouettes danced overhead.
System flashed crimson:
[Alert: Cave Spryte Swarm Detected – 5 targets]
I stumbled back three paces, pick at the ready.
The first spryte dove. I swung high, missed air. Sharp talons raked my cheek—haptic feedback flared. HP bar blinked: –3 %. Sting hurt more than code.
Second one charged; I pivoted and rammed the haft upward. [Critical Hit! – Defeated] Pixels burst like embers, reward only satisfaction.
The swarm split: two feints, two direct. I ducked under one's arc and drove the pick into its belly—[Hit 14]—then another's talons shredded my shoulder. Poison icon blinked; sixty seconds. Great.
Two left circled, wings beating dust. I yanked a fist-sized rock from rubble and hurled. It struck true—[Hit 7]—and the spryte shrieked into a rubble avalanche. Last one hesitated, then fled in a frenzy.
Silence reclaimed the tunnel, broken by drip-water. The poison timer ended; only a dull fatigue remained. I spat a copper-tang drop from my lip.
"Too handsome for bats, eh?" I muttered, wiping blood-smear gloves. No cure-pots yet—note to self.
Returning to the glittering wall, my pick chewed through the remaining vein. With three final swings, a thick slab crumbled free—node exhausted.
[+3 Copper Ore]
Quest progress 10 / 10 – Complete!
[Quest Complete: Cut Your Teeth]
Reward: 300 XP | +1 Silver | Old Gus's Beginner Pick (Q8)
[Level Up! 0 → 1]
A status window unfurled:
┌─ Orefinder – Level 1 Gnome Artificer ─────────────┐
│ HP 120/120 Stamina 140/150 MP 40/40 │
│ STR 9 AGI 12 VIT 12 INT 15 PER 15 LCK 9 │
│ Skills: Mining 3, Surveying 1 │
│ Perks: Low-Light Vision (?) Ore Sense (Dormant)│
└──────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
Ore Sense "Dormant," huh? At least the sheet acknowledged it now—first time it didn't flicker out. Like peeking at a die weighted in my favor.
Pack heavy with ore and adrenaline ebbing, I retraced steps to the main passage. Every footfall drummed echoes of collapse risk, each distant boom timed like a hammer's strike.
When I emerged, Old Gus stood on an overturned crate, spectacles fogged by pipe smoke. He eyed my bloated sack and the scratch across my cheek.
"Tunnel Sprytes give you a love-tap, did they?" he rasped.
"Mutual exchange of viewpoints," I replied, dropping the sack by his scales. Copper clanged as it hit the pans. "Ten units, as asked."
Gus whistled low. "Looks more like thirteen." He weighed each chunk meticulously, moustache twitching with approval. "Can usually tell malachite from moss, right?"
"Helps when the rock glows," I said before my brain caught up. He arched an eyebrow.
"Low-light vision, you mean."
He scribbled on parchment. "As promised." A silver coin—a broad dwarven decar—flipped into my palm with satisfying heft. UI auto-converted:
[Currency +1 Silver]
Half a loaf of bread for real children.
"And your bonus." He paused, then produced a steel-forged pick engraved with simple runes. "Q8 steel—won't blunt on first bit of iron."
[Item Acquired: Beginner Pickaxe – Steel (Durability 50/50), +12 % Mining Speed]
I cradled it like a holy relic. "Spasibo, Gus."
He puffed. "Don't thank me yet. Work only gets harder. Town armory needs a copper shipment by sunset. You free to deliver?"
A fetch quest—poor time-for-money ratio, but every XP tick mattered and the walk tested stamina. "I'm game."
He handed me a receipt. "Head down the trail to Bristlecone Hamlet. Sell to Quartermaster Hobson. Watch the ice on switchbacks."
As I hoisted my pack, a soft chime sounded:
[Hidden Achievement Unlocked: First Vein]
Effect: +1 % Mining Yield (Copper Nodes)
An unexpected bonus—margin mattered.
Outside, the sun had edged across its central arc, alchemizing clouds to gold. I set off down the frosted trail, pick rhythm locking to my stride—thunk-step, thunk-step—while the mountain answered in eager echoes. Nine thousand silvers to go, but debt felt less like an immovable boulder now and more like ore: hard, heavy, yet breakable with the right strikes.
Leaning into the downtrail wind, I set the pick's rhythm against my pace—thunk-step, thunk-step—and the mountain answered in distant, eager echoes.
Chapter 4: The Slow Grind Begins
Below me lay Bristlecone Hamlet, nestled like a determined model fortress on its rocky ledge—six slate-roofed huts huddled against the evening chill, a smithy roaring sparks into the dusk, and a stockade that might have been intended more for ceremony than true defense. The mountain wind's keening whistle tugged at my too-large coat and rattled the copper receipt in my pocket just as the sun's brass disk dipped toward the western horizon. By the time my boots met the hamlet's muddy main street, a soft, triumphant chime flared:
≪Location Discovered: Bristlecone Hamlet – Pop. 143≫
The village air wove together pine-tar tang, damp wool, and an unexpected sweetness—like burnt sugar drifting off a distant hearth. Children—NPC sprites with knobby knees and bright eyes—darted around my ankles, giggling at the squat gnome in the absurd coat, then scampered away, their laughter warmer than the few remaining rays of sun.
Quartermaster Hobson's office—half-buried against the cliff face, its door sheathed in iron bands thick as my forearm—loomed ahead. I paused to smooth my coat, reminding myself how many travelers had rapped on that gate without ever returning. Two taps later, hinges protested in a metal squeal and a barrel-chested man with a stained uniform and a moustache like an invertebrate beaten in a fight glowered at me.
"Delivery?" he barked, shoulders hunched like a bear warding off winter.
I offered the parchment with a wry twist of my lips, recalling Old Gus's crooked hand. "Copper receipt from… well, you know who."
Hobson snorted, brow arching. He scanned the wax seal, grunted approval, and rummaged in a heavy lockbox. "Standard fee—two silvers." He dropped the coins into my palm.
[Currency +2 Silver | Total: 3 Silver]
I let the cold metal settle against my skin: half a loaf of real bread, I thought. Progress.
"You look… tidy for a tunnel rat," Hobson muttered, nostrils flaring.
I shrugged, tucking a damp lock of hair behind my ear despite the absurd collar. "First day. I'll be dirtier tomorrow."
He grunted but offered one last tip. "See the smith if that pick needs sharpening." Then the door slammed behind me.
Outside, the hamlet was awash in molten-gold light as dusk seeped in. My shoulders loosened, though the weight beneath my ribs remained—hope, debt, and the distant echo of Luca's threat. Before I could slip the receipt away, another ping broke the calm:
≪Quest Complete: Deliver Receipt≫
Reward → 150 XP | 2 Silver | Reputation +1 (Hamlet Logistics)
My XP bar nudged upward, not enough to level, but enough to spark a pulse of pride.
A few steps brought me to the smithy—a squat building of sooty bricks and roaring forge fire. Sparks danced off my boots as a broad-backed woman, muscles rippling beneath scorched leather, hammered a glowing ingot. She glanced up, eyes the color of river stones.
"Sharpen?" she asked, hammer poised.
I offered the Beginner Steel Pick; her soot-black palm closed around the shaft, thumb lingering on the rune-etched head. For a heartbeat, I wondered whether that etching harbored magic.
"Nice balance. Keep it oiled."
She worked the whetstone in rhythmic strokes.
[Pickaxe Durability 42 → 50/50] | Cost: 10 copper
The blade gleamed like winter starlight. I dipped into old habits. "Spasibo," I whispered.
Outside, dusk sank fully, and the real world tugged at my mind—rent, Anna, Mitya. My finger hovered over the logout interface. Just one more task, I thought.
A battered noticeboard rattled in the chill wind:
– WANTED: Broken Cart Wheels Repaired (Reward 30 XP, 10 copper)
– Pest Cull – Molerats in Cellar (Reward 50 XP, 20 copper)
– Courier Needed: Spare Nails to Smithy (Reward 10 XP, 2 copper)
A stray breeze caught my cloak as I jabbed the cellar job. Instantly:
≪Quest Accepted: "Boots in the Cellar" – Exterminate 6 Molerats≫
An assistant, lantern in hand and face streaked with sweat, led me behind the quartermaster's office into a stench-laden storeroom. Damp burlap sacks towered under flickering lamplight; the air reeked of old onions and ammonia. From the shadows, large black eyes shone—molerats, each bigger than a farm rabbit, jaws bristling with needle teeth.
My HP glowed full; the poison debuff was gone. I hefted the sharpened pick, heart already hammering.
The first swing cracked through fur and bone—[Hit –9 HP | Molerat 0/25]—and the creature exploded in a puff of polygons. Four more strikes sent the rest skittering no more.
≪Quest Complete: Boots in the Cellar≫
Reward → 50 XP | 20 copper | Molerat Hide ×2
I tucked the hides into my rucksack alongside the new coins—then, with a sigh heavier than my pack, I logged out.
––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
The slow sigh of the pod's hatch echoed in my bones just as it hissed open, releasing the cling of gel-warmth—and there, beyond, the heavy Perth night pressed against me like a damp blanket, its humidity carrying faint wafts of caramelized onions from Mrs. Diaz's kitchen two doors over. The apartment lights were asleep, every lamp extinguished save for a solitary bar of amber beneath the kitchenette cabinets, casting lean shadows across the floor. On the fridge door, Anna's familiar looping scrawl teased me in cramped letters:
Mitya reading for English test; fed him noodles; don't forget rent envelope
Despite the ache rooting itself into every fiber of my body, a small, stubborn smile curled at the edge of my lips. I spooned cold rice into the microwave, listening to steam hiss and swirl as soy sauce scattered across the plastic turntable. Three silvers, jingling in my pocket—just a drop in the unforgiving bucket—yet after months of fear-starved hope, salt tasted like victory.
My phone buzzed against the counter, screaming Luca's area code across the silent apartment. A jolt hit my gut. Tick-tock, golden boy. Week's half gone. Feed the magpie or he pecks. I slid the phone face-down and pretended it never happened; no reply would ever feel enough.
A soft creak betrayed its presence before a voice:
"You okay, Kolya?"
Mitya's small words floated through the doorway like a lifeline.
I scrubbed at a stubborn rice stain on a dish, forcing the corners of my mouth to rise. "I'm fine, malysh. Go to sleep." His nod—so small, so earnest—was a lantern in the dark. I set alarms, rinsed the last spoon, and slipped back into the pod.
By the time I logged in again, the star-choked sky had shifted toward dawn, lanterns flaring along weathered wooden walkways. My stamina bar glowed full, a sharpened pick pulsing in my hand like a second heartbeat. No sooner had my boots settled on the mine's threshold than a reminder flashed against the edge of my vision:
Stretch | Hydrate | Don't Collaps—
Mini-Arc I: Midnight Copper
Tunnel #3 yawned before me, its mouth a ragged maw of darkness where wary sprytes flickered against torchlight. Cool, damp air—heavy with the tang of minerals—filled my lungs, so rich it felt like breathing in metal. Each swing of the pick rang through my bones, every impact revealing copper seams that glowed under my low-light vision:
[Mining Skill ↑ 3 → 4]
[Copper Ore ×5]
Fifteen loads later, Old Gus's approving nod felt like thunder in my ears—one silver per ten ores, plus that crooked dwarf grin splitting his face. By real-world dawn, my purse jingled with eight silver, my muscles humming a triumphant hymn, and the XP bar crept to 73 %. A translucent stat sheet drifted before me, each number a heartbeat:
── Stats ─────────────────
Level 1 | XP 73 %
STR 9 AGI 12 VIT 12 INT 15 PER 15 LCK 9
Skills: Mining 4, Surveying 1
Perks: Low-Light Vision, Ore Sense (Dormant)
────────────────────────
I blinked against the pale morning light and dismissed it, thoughts already flickering ahead. After breakfast and Mitya's school drop-off—six-thirty by my bleary watch—I relogged. The hamlet buzzed like a beehive; NPC masons hauled slate slabs as if the world's weight rode on their shoulders. A fresh quest marker glimmered over the bulletin:
Cart Repair – Deliver Reinforced Spokes to Stablemaster Katya.
Reward: 60 XP, 15 copper, +5 Stamina Potion
Katya's gauntleted glove tapped a shattered wheel, each ring sharp as irony. "Spokes are yonder," she said, voice crisp enough to carve. "Fit 'em proper."
I knelt, aligning oak limbs as she circled—her gaze sharp under steel brows. "Mind the grain," she instructed, voice clipped; I hammered sparks into wood, unlocking my Cart-Crafting skill just as a voice crackled in my comm link.
"External call request…" Vinny's nasal drawl buzzed. "You remember next Thursday? Luca hates lateness."
My heart galloped. "Working on it," I muttered, missing a hammer-beat.
≪Level Up! 1 → 2≫
STR +1 | Mining Speed +2 %
I exhaled, wiping sweat from my brow as the new perks blossomed in my mind.
Mini-Arc II: Day-Shift Doldrums
Noon found me flipping reheated curry in a battered pan, Lego bricks strewn where Mitya had staged last night's siege. But by three, I was back in Bristlecone's square for the second login—a choreographed dance of reputation and reward. The same Cart Repair quest blinked at me like a stubborn scar. One smooth mini-game later:
≪Reputation Up: Hamlet Logistics – Friendly≫
Friendly status unlocked a 5 % repair discount, and at that exact moment Hobson's assistant appeared with a flask of Stamina Potion—an unsolicited gift from Friendly rank. Level three chimed softly in my ear:
≪Level Up! 2 → 3≫
VIT +1 | Finesse +2 %
Progress—capricious as a mountain gale—rushed me forward.
Mini-Arc III: Dawn of Ore Sense
On my third login of the day, I plunged into a ragged side adit—Old Gus's rumor had whispered of hidden copper veins. Condensation dripped in mournful rhythms, bioluminescent fungi painting the walls in violet twilight. No map guided me; instead, a pulse thrummed under my glove—a whisper of promise rather than bone-deep echo.
I pressed my palm to the rock face and felt it: a low vibration humming like destiny itself. Then:
≪NEW PERK ACTIVATED: Ore Sense I≫
Passive: Highlights metal deposits within 15 m. Cooldown 30 s
Copper halos sprang into view—veins blinking like fireflies—and deeper still, an iron pulse beckoned. Risk and reward warred in my chest; hunger for discovery won. Each swing shattered flakes of ore as though the rock itself resisted:
[Copper Yield Bonus +1 % → applied]
[Mining Skill ↑ 4 → 5]
A hidden chime announced:
≪Hidden Achievement: Journeyman Digger≫
Effect: +2 % Swing Speed
Time folded in on itself—swing, collect, dodge sprytes, ascend to sell, log out, stretch, hydrate, kiss my siblings goodnight, and dive back in. Five real-world days crystallized into ritual:
05:30 Perth — Wake, pack lunches.
06:30 — Session A (in-game 08:00–15:00).
12:30 — Logout, reheated noodles; IRL construction shift.
18:00 — Session B (Dyson evening).
22:00 — Kids' dinner and homework guard.
23:00 — Session C (night mining).
Sleep? Four broken hours. Caffeine patches bandaged the gaps.
UI Stat sheet Friday night:
── Stats ─────────────────
Level 4 | XP 11 %
STR 11 AGI 13 VIT 13 INT 15 PER 16 LCK 9
Skills: Mining 5, Surveying 2, Cart-Crafting 1
Perks: Low-Light Vision, Ore Sense I (CD 30 s), Hidden Cursed Handsome (undisclosed)
Currency: 32 Silver 55 Copper
────────────────────────
Thirty-two silver—sixteen real dollars. A laugh bubbled out, half joy, half hysteria.
That night, Gus pinged:
"Meet me at the crusher belt 06:00 for iron tour."
Advanced ore meant higher pay.
Mini-Arc IV: First Iron Haul
Before dawn, I trudged across rope-hung gorges into faux twilight, lava glow painting the walls. Gus, stubby cigar ember flickering on his beard, handed me a cold-iron lamp. "Iron veins past Widow's Bridge—tough rock. Stronger swing."
Under his patient coaching—stance balanced, chisel angled just so, stamina conserved—ten swings shattered a single chunk. By midday, our carts brimmed.
≪Quest Complete: First Iron Haul≫
Reward → 500 XP | 5 Silver | Pick Durability Kit
≪Level Up! 4 → 5≫
STR +1 | PER +1
Skill Unlock: Smelting (Rank I)
Gus slapped my shoulder. "Town foundry's hiring. Talk to Branka." The foundry's roar swallowed me whole, like a dragon exhaling molten breath. Branka—an orc woman with copper-capped tusks—tossed me a ladle. "Shift starts now."
Maintain the pour's arc. Duck slag splashes. Feed the furnace to 1 200 °C. My geology notes flickered in memory—then:
≪Skill Gain: Smelting 0 → 2≫
Wage: 1 Silver
My pocket chimed real-world noon; kids needed lunch. I bowed out, logging off.
Kitchen air smelled of burnt popcorn—Mitya's latest experiment—so I slapped together toasted cheese while Anna watched my pallid face. "You look tired," she said, concern soft in her voice.
"Long shift," I admitted, tapping the OrbCoin total: 23 real dollars. Her hope flickered, then dimmed. "Still short," she whispered.
"Step by step," I promised, drawing her into a hug.
Montage Week End:
– Sunday: Iron again; Mining plateaus, Smelting climbs; pick repaired twice.
– Monday IRL: Trench collapse—my soil analysis saved the crew hours; foreman tipped $40 cash.
– Monday night in-game: Delivery chain expands; Reputation → Friendly.
≪Reputation Up: Hamlet Logistics – Friendly≫
– Ore Sense perk evolved: Ore Sense II (25 m, CD 20 s).
– UI confirmed new yield bonus.
Late Wednesday—three days before Luca's deadline—my pouch jingled with 58 silver (≈ $29). A shard of panic pressed cold against my ribs; Luca needed seventy-plus a day. The curve loomed impossible.
Desperation sharpened conviction. That night, I returned to Widow's Bridge adit, tunnel supports groaning at 32 % integrity—a siren against safety. Ignoring red warnings, I swung. Rock sprayed sparks… and silver threads gleamed.
≪Rare Ore Discovered: Silver Vein≫
Default Sale Price: 15 copper/100 g
My laugh echoed off damp walls as three sacks filled. Then, with a final groan, the shaft collapsed behind me, scraping my HP down to 42 %. But I had the vein.
Back in town, Branka weighed purity, nodded, and dropped twelve silver into my palm.
Currency: 70 Silver 12 Copper
I exhaled against bruised ribs and collapsed onto the pod bench—adrenaline still roaring. Notifications muted; tunnel adrenaline still thick in my veins.
Mini-Arc V: Silver Run
Thursday dawned like acid in my limbs—exhaustion pulling every muscle taut. Kids fed, lunches packed, I surrendered to the pod: supports reset, integrity at 45 %. Sprytes swarmed mid-swing—poison stacks draining HP—until a Stamina Potion steadied my grip, and pick and willpower finished the vein.
Loot: seven silver ore → sold at eight silver
Currency: 78 Silver 12 Copper (≈ $39.06)
Still short. Then Gus's ping: town council needed a basalt core from Cliffknife Ridge. Reward: 25 silver—maybe enough.
A two-hour IRL hike later, beneath circling vultures and a sky slashed with sun, I drilled a cylindrical core. The pod's HUD flickered:
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Then blinked away—anomalous metrics stirring old ghosts.
At the council chamber, I handed over the core; the scribe's quill tapped approval, silver clinked into my purse, plus an inn voucher.
Currency: 103 Silver 12 Copper
I pumped a fist as I logged out—17:10. Perth's late-afternoon breeze rattled windows; Anna lay asleep on the sofa, textbooks splayed.
That evening, I pedaled to Luca's Magpie Café under neon jacarandas and burning stars. Vee stirred espresso with a single wrist-flip—one motion honed by years of habit. I slid the rent envelope across the scarred wood. "Seventy-two dollars."
He counted, jaw tightening with each bill. "A bit short."
"Rates dipped," I said softly. "Covers interest plus fifty principal."
He pocked the bills, offering a curt nod. "Boss likes progress. Sunday, same time."
Relief bloomed in my chest, fragile and fierce. Outside, diesel fumes mingled with jacaranda blossoms; I breathed deep, shoulders finally loosened. The debt-dragon still lurked, but each paid silver chipped at its scales—and tomorrow, deeper tunnels, richer veins… and tonight, those promised nachos awaited.