Chapter 5: Danger in the Depths
Chapter 5: Danger in the Depths
The mountain coughed thin white steam as dawn bled over the inner sky, yet I felt no warmth—only the old ache of debt coiling around my spine. A week of copper and iron runs had toughened my muscles and swelled my coin-purse to a princely eighty-odd silver, but Luca Spadaro's ledger still dangled like a noose in my back pocket. If I meant to keep my family's kneecaps intact, I needed richer veins—bigger strikes—before the next payment came due. Old Gus's maps, yellowed and smudged, marked an abandoned tunnel system two ridges east; unstable, monster-infested… perfect.
I paused on the windswept loading dock outside Bristlecone Hamlet, the wind whipping my breath into frosty clouds. Beginner Steel Pick—edge keen after the smithy's whetstone—rested across one shoulder, its spare haft lashed securely to my pack. Three Stamina Potions, antifreeze-green in glass vials, dangled at my belt. A coil of hemp rope, chalk for marking my trail, and two jury-rigged blasting charges—traded at the Union co-op for a handful of copper—snapped with promise. Somewhere behind me a rooster crowed, its call thin and desperate. My HUD chimed:
≪Timed Quest Reminder: "Debt Collector" – 10 days remaining≫
I snorted, snagging a breath of salty air—and pressure. сидеть, just a polite countdown to bone-saws and concrete boots. I willed the prompt away and started crunching up the frost-slick trail, my boots slipping on black ice.
No sooner had the ridge fallen away than I stood before Tunnel Six—widely nicknamed Widow's Teeth for good reason. A jagged overhang loomed overhead, poised like an executioner's blade. Beside the gaping mouth, a warped notice board hosted bleached, illegible warnings; one line of fresh charcoal screamed:
RAT INFESTATION — ENTER AT OWN RISK
Beneath it, a tiny skull doodle grinned.
"Da, very welcoming," I muttered, shoving humidity-cold air into my lungs, then ducked inside.
The temperature plunged ten degrees, trading pine-crisp freshness for a damp miasma of ammonia and rot. My Low-Light Vision bled color from the world; the corridor revealed itself in slate, ash, and smoky emerald veins wherever oxidized minerals traced the walls. The mini-map, blank beyond my lantern's glow, offered no guidance—good. Where the System lacked information, competition dwindled.
A few steps in, the floor sloped downward, narrowing until my shoulders scraped damp rock. Water dripped ahead like a ticking metronome. I paused, spinning my pick handle in my palm, then etched a chalk arrow on the wall. Always leave breadcrumbs; too many rookies respawn minus their gear, I thought, tucking the chalk stub back into my vest.
A faint thrumming brushed the inside of my skull—Ore Sense II flickering even before conscious thought. Something metallic lay ahead, richer than iron. I centered my breathing, invoked the perk, and the darkness bloomed:
≪Ore Sense II – Active | Range 25 m | Cool-down 20 s≫
Ghostly waypoints shimmered on my HUD, each a promise of profit. The first node lay forty paces down a side corridor. I advanced, boots squelching in silty mud, nostrils flaring at the sour, mouse-musk stench—a hallmark of carnivorous rodents, learned on ill-fated Kalgoorlie field trips.
Three meters in, the tunnel opened into a bulbous chamber ribbed by rotting timbers. Claw-marks scored the beams; the floor lay littered with bone splinters and ore-cart wheels rusted to skeletal petals. My Ore Sense icons pulsed over half-buried debris—veins slithered beyond, whispering temptation.
Caution, Kolya. Profit versus safety. The Osadchuk rule. I inched forward, scanning every crack overhead. Nothing moved. With one testing swing, flakes of grey stone and metallic gleam showered the air:
[Mining Skill ↑ 5 → 6]
[Critical Strike! Ore Yield +1]
A fat silver lump clanged into my palm; I tucked it into my rucksack when a low hiss rasped behind me. Whirling, I saw twin points of red glitter beneath a sagging support beam. A mangy creature, twice the size of a terrier—mole-rat hide matted with grime, ivory scimitars for incisors—slunk into view. Another pair of eyes winked behind it, then another, until a semicircle of slinking bodies filled the chamber.
≪Mob Identified: Cave Rat (Level 6) × 8≫
Aggression: High | Pack AI Enabled
My pulse jolted. Level parity meant one or two I could handle, but eight… I'd be the main course. I stepped back, raising the pick like a half-hearted shield.
"Easy, droogs," I murmured—rats didn't understand Russian, but speaking steadied my nerves.
The front-left rat lunged. I swung, pick connecting with a wet CRACK that echoed off stone. The rat collapsed in a puff of dust.
[Hit –28 HP | Cave Rat – Defeated]
[Loot: Diseased Tooth × 1]
Seven to go. They surged at once—claws shredding air where my thigh had been. Pain icons flashed:
[HP –12 | Bleed 5 s]
My stamina drained fast; my build favored mining, not melee. Improvisation: I sprinted under a sagging timber frame overhead. Two rotten wedges held it upright—remove them, and gravity could gift me crowd control.
I jabbed the pick handle into the first wedge—snap—then the second.
THOOM. The beam and half the ceiling crashed down, sealing the entry and crushing two rats beneath a rubble mound. Four survivors clawed at the debris, rage squealing in their red eyes.
Cue explosives. I yanked the first powder charge free, set the three-second timer, and lobbed it over the debris. The fuse hissed like frying bacon; I dove aside.
BOOM.
Dust geysered upward, coating my vision in a grey haze. Beyond the settling cloud, a single skritch echoed—one rat had survived. Coughing, I edged forward until the dust thinned, revealing the alpha: larger, scarred, flank peppered with shrapnel. Its lips bubbled foam.
Alpha rats gained Desperation Frenzy at low HP—boosted speed and damage. I'd read the wiki.
"Ладно," I whispered, adjusting my grip. Roles reversed: this would hurt.
It charged impossibly fast; I side-stepped, claws raking my arm—pain erupted. Spurred by reflex, I reversed momentum and drove the pick spike into its spine. The beast shrieked, twisting against the strike; I planted my boot on its haunch and ripped free the pick. Another blow shattered its skull.
[Cave Rat Alpha – Defeated!]
XP +150 | Loot: Rat Fang (Uncommon), Stringy Meat × 2
[Achievement Unlocked: "Pied Piper" – Survive Pack Encounter]
Reward: +1 Vitality, +5% Fear-Resist vs Beast-type
My HP read 41/120, stamina 32%. Adrenaline trembled in my hands, half-haptic feedback, half real fear. But the chamber lay empty now—mine for the taking.
I chugged a Stamina Potion—spearmint burning my throat—watched the bar refill, and reset Ore Sense.
≪Ore Sense II – Ready≫
Beneath the crushed rats, I set my pick to the wall. This stone, harder than copper, required every ounce of my +6 Mining skill: raise, turn, drive. Chips flew in rhythmic shower until, fifteen swings later:
[Ore Extracted: Silver Ore × 3]
[Mining +1 → 7]
Sweat trickled even in the simulated chill. I shifted stance to stave off cramps, then resumed. One swing—unexpected resistance. Cracks spidered deeper, revealing a metallic blue-white sheen. I blinked: silver didn't gleam so cold.
Identify check…
≪Identify Check: Geology 11≫
Mineral: Galena (Lead-Silver mix) | Purity 72%
Galena: lead-silver ore, rare and heavy. Heart hammering, I scored a rectangle around the seam, levered a wedge, and watched a forearm-sized chunk thud into the dust. My pack protested under its thirteen-kilogram weight.
[Galena Ore (Purity 72%) × 1 — Weight 13 kg]
Rucksack capacity crept into yellow warning. Each galena chunk sold for five silver—maybe six to a smelter—still pennies toward Luca's $4 400. But rich pennies.
I chalked an X on the wall for my exit path, tracing waypoints back through the rubble to the main shaft. Should bank this haul… Greed chattered at me, Ore Sense humming again. Another cluster shimmered deeper—tantalizing.
Profit vs safety. The Osadchuk dilemma whispered through every scene: micro-choices that shaped fate. My debt tally glowed behind my lids: Anna's bus card, half-empty; Mitya's English test tomorrow; rent… ten days left.
I tightened my pack straps and plunged onward, deeper into Widow's Teeth, where fortune waited—if I survived.
Two hundred meters later, tunnel cross-section shrank to crooked hexagon. Support timbers absent; just raw schist and quartz ribs. My boots sloshed through ankle-deep runoff. Ore Sense pulsed incessant—vein density off charts. But the HUD also flashed red.
[Environmental Warning: Structural Integrity 22% | Collapse Risk: Severe]
I stopped. Few more meters and rock above might pancake me into digital jam—respawn tax, item loss, time sink. Think.
I knelt, tested floor—the mud concealed rail grooves; old ore cart tracks. If I could anchor rope to a rail spike, crawl belly-low under weak ceiling, grab ore, and crawl out before it fell… Risk insane but feasible.
"Bozhe moi, Kolya, you're a stubborn fool," I muttered. Still, I unpacked rope, wedged pitons, tied harness figure-eight.
Low crawl engaged every trembling muscle. Helmet scraped stalactites; water soaked trousers in VR, phantom cold seeping. Each meter, Ore Sense icons swelled until a fever brightness filled vision—jackpot ahead.
Cave opened abruptly into a pocket chamber no larger than a classroom. Central pillar of raw ore jutted—lustrous blue-white veins spiraling through host rock—galena mixed with antimony and flecks of argentite. I gaped.
[Unexplored Node Discovered – Quality Rare]
Expected Yield: 120–160 kg mixed ore
Enough to double my bank if sold refined.
I unslung pick, mindful of echoes, and tapped near base. Stone rang glassy. Perfect.
Three swings: fragment cracked free. The chamber trembled, fine dust rain drifting from ceiling.
[Structural Integrity 15%]
One more chunk, I promised, just one.
I set pick, swung.
CRRRACK. The pillar split—massive hunk thudded onto pack harness. Status weight bar spiked into red. +26 kg. Breath came fast.
Then the world growled. Ceiling fractures spider-webbed overhead.
[Structural Integrity 7%]
[Immediate Collapse Imminent]
"Idu k chertu," I hissed, and scrambled for the exit.
Mud sucked boots; weight-drag slowed limbs. I dropped two lesser silver lumps to lighten load. Rope guided me along, but dust clouds turned vision soup.
First beam overhead snapped—whump. Debris crashed inches behind, sending shockwaves. HP ticked minus five from falling grit. I spat blood, kept crawling.
Tunnel ahead pinched where support boards had rotted. I shoved pack first, chest scraping rock. Another quake—floor heaved, water sloshed. Rear ceiling caved, sealing path behind with boulder blockade. My calf trapped under loose rock; HP nosedived.
Pain blasted, haptic nodes along my leg screaming.
[HP –18 | Bleed II]
[Movement Speed –25%]
Panic clawed, but I forced calm. Assess, act. I rotated torso, jammed pick blade under the rock, used leverage. STR 11 plus adrenaline overcame mass; stone rolled aside. Leg freed, though status added Fracture (Minor)—speed penalty persisted.
I limped forward. Exit shimmered maybe twenty meters. Rocks rained like hailstones.
Ten meters. My stamina meter nearly empty. I cracked the last potion—liquid ice down throat—stamina up 60.
Five. Daylight—the faint haze of isotope lamps in main shaft.
Final rumble roared—a ceiling slab the size of a truck dislodged right above. No time. I dove.
World blanked.
Pain vanished. Sight flared white, then reformed into Bristlecone's infirmary. Soft cotton sheets under back, antiseptic scent overlaying pine smoke. System message hovered.
[You Died]
Penalty: –5% XP towards next level | Dropped Loot: Galena Ore 13 kg, Silver Ore 4 kg | Durability –10% all equipped gear
I groaned. Not catastrophic—pack was mostly secured by rope harness, so maybe salvageable if corpse persisted. Drop timer: corpses persisted sixty minutes. I'd been offline maybe fifteen.
Nurse NPC bustled up. "Easy, miner. Tunnel bites hard."
"I need out," I rasped.
"Fracture simulated; bed rest recommended twelve hours."
"Not happening."
She sighed AI exasperation, but offered a Bone-Set Potion for 1 silver. I paid.
[Condition Cleared: Fracture]
I hobbled to gear rack, paid 5 copper for repair kit, patched pick and boots. Heart raced thinking of galena lying unguarded.
I sprinted—or tried to; 15% XP loss left stamina regen sluggish—across hamlet, down switchbacks, into still-dusty Tunnel Six approach. NPC barricade blocked mouth—two dwarf guards hefting war picks.
"Mine sealed," one barked. "Collapse hazard."
"Corpse retrieval," I panted, flashing Miners' Guild badge. "Personal belongings."
He eyed timer icon above my head—system tracked retrieval entitlement. He grudgingly stepped aside.
Inside, tunnel choked with debris. I navigated by memory, using side shoots where air burbled. Rat corpses still littered first chamber, pocked by scavenger bites. My previous chalk X gleamed faint despite dust.
Past collapse, route ended at a wall of stone. Corpse marker arrow pointed… beyond. Damn.
Options: dig or detour through unknown fissures maybe linking. Digging risked another cave-in. Detour risked getting lost. Timer: 27:42.
I picked detour.
Half-collapsed ventilation shaft jutted overhead; vertical crack enough for gnome to squeeze. I swarmed up, bruising ribs, shoving pack ahead. Shaft angled, widening into parallel drift. Ore Sense pinged null; good sign of less loaded strata—lower collapse chance.
Five minutes crawling landed me atop rubble pile—on far side of original cave-in. Corpse lay partially buried, UI highlighting bag. I slid down, yanked bag free. UI list showed:
– Galena Ore 1 × 13 kg
– Silver Ore ×4
– Diseased Tooth ×1
– Rat Fang (Uncommon) ×1
– Stringy Meat ×2
All intact. Relief flooded.
Now exfiltration.
I chose direct route backing through shaft; unstable but fastest. Timer safe. Twenty long minutes later, I stumbled into daylight, lungs hacking rock dust, bag groaning metal weight.
[Quest Updated: Personal Milestone]
Recover Dropped Ore — Complete
I laughed, half-crazed. Then Ore Sense flared unbidden—headache spike—and UI glitched:
SIGNAL/Ω/289…DATA ANOMALY DETECTED
Glyphs scrolled gibberish, then UI reset. Perk cool-down tripled to 60 s.
"Later," I growled. "Beer first, glitch later."
At Bristlecone's buying office, Quartermaster Hobson's moustache quivered seeing galena. He weighed lumps, whistled low.
"Purity seventy-ish. Market's thirsty. Seven silver per kilo if you sell whole, ten if I take risk refining and you wait a week."
"Seven, immediate," I said. Risk and wait were luxuries.
He counted 91 silver into my pouch.
[Currency +91 Silver | Total 171 Silver 30 Copper]
Conversion rate 2:1 to Aussie cents: ≈$85. Closer, but Luca demanded thousands. Yet momentum mattered. I exhaled and accepted Hobson's clap on shoulder.
"You bring more, lad, and this hamlet'll carve your face on a coin."
I muttered "Bozhe blagoslovit" and limped to the inn.
Evening found me nursing root beer at a scarred pine table. Rats and collapse still ghosted limbs. But mind raced mapping next steps. The deeper tunnels were lethal, yes, but ore value scaled exponential. With better gear—iron-haft pick, reinforced braces—maybe even a hired guard, the risk-reward tilted.
Anna's text popped on peripheral lens: Mitya got 85% on his English test! He says thanks for flashcards.
I smiled. Family anchor. Reason to crawl back into hell tomorrow.
System ping cut across the moment.
≪Global Notice: Regional Event – "Plague of Claws" Cave Rat populations surge in tunnels 4-8 for 48 hrs | Reward Multipliers Active≫
Perfect. More rats, more pelts, but also more chaos—others might farm them. Loot drop table for rare gems reportedly spiked during plague events. My Ore Sense plus high rat density equaled potential windfall.
"You were asking for smarter grind, Kolya," I murmured. "Be careful what you wish."
I drained mug, left coin. Outside, the Dyson sunset painted inner horizon violet, curving overhead like a cosmic bowl. Somewhere under that impossible sky, fortune waited behind crumbling stone and gnashing teeth. I tugged coat tight, already feeling phantom rock dust on skin.
Tomorrow the depth would beckon again, darker, richer, and hungrier. I intended to feed it my sweat—nothing more.
Chapter 6: Market Day and Cursed Blessings
I woke to that familiar chill only full-dive rigs can fake—a phantom draft brushing the soles of my real-world feet even though the pod's gel was warm. My HUD shimmered into focus, pulsing a muted orange that meant sunrise inside the Dyson Sphere. Good. I needed daylight for the long trek down-slope. Gear check first: beginner steel pick, edge still decent from Marna's last sharpening; one blasted stamina potion left; rope, spare haft, and the uncut violet gem I'd pried from the cave-rat treasury—secure in a leather pouch tied twice. Purse sat at 171 silver 30 coppers after yesterday's galena sale . Enough to buy supplies but hardly enough to keep Luca's vultures off my family.
I rolled a kink from my neck—real or simulated, hard to tell these days—and keyed the binding stone by the infirmary gate. ≪Bind Point updated: Bristlecone Infirmary≫ pinged across my vision. One crawlspace collapse a week was enough reminder to save often.
The plan was simple: march to Flintspar, the market town perched at the Crooked Mountains' base, fence the gem, restock potions, and maybe spring for proper rat-bite antidote. If luck held, I'd even snatch a hot meal that wasn't hardtack. Luck, of course, was relative for a gnome flagged with a hidden "Cursed Handsomeness" modifier—an irony the developers evidently found hilarious .
The mountain path curled downward in tight switchbacks. Frost-whitened pines rattled in the wind, and the alien sky arched overhead: that tiny sun bobbing at the Dyson Sphere's center, aurora veils rippling like spilled diesel in a puddle. I passed the mile marker where iron carts from Bristlecone turned back, wheels scarred by rat claws—souvenir of the Plague of Claws event now raging deeper in the tunnels. Fine by me. I'd earned enough rat fangs for a lifetime.
Two hours in, knees aching, I hit the cross-timbered arch that marked Flintspar's northern gate. The town was busier than I'd ever seen: miners queuing at weigh stations, smiths hawking whetstones, herbalists waving bundles of blue-leaf antidote. Apparently everyone and their grandmother was cashing in plague-rat drops. The air smelled of cedar smoke, hot iron, and desperation.
I adjusted my cloak hood—limiting the mystical cheekbone glare, or so I hoped—and headed straight for Joric Gemworks. The shop squatted between a tanner and a pottery stall; a chunky quartz sign above the door promised "FAIR RATES PAID" in chipped runes. Sure. I pushed inside.
Joric, the dwarven proprietor, wore double magnifiers and a permanent squint. Before I even reached the counter he grimaced, as if my face offended him on a moral level. "What can I possibly do for ye, pretty-boy?" he barked, voice oily with sarcasm.
There it was—the hidden debuff's social kick. I swallowed irritation and produced the violet stone. "Uncut amethyst, rat-nest origin. Clean cleavage, minimal fractures."
Joric snorted. He turned the gem over with tweezers, tapped it once against a testing plate, then shrugged exaggeratedly. "Fifty silver."
"That's a tenth the board rate," I said.
"Board rate's for proper suppliers, lad. Not tunnel-scrapers with tourist skin."
System text flickered red behind my eyelids: [Haggling Check—Base Cha 14 (+2) | Modifier: Cursed Handsomeness (–5) | Result: 11 → Fail]. Wonderful. My own charisma sabotaged me again.
I clenched my jaw. "I'll pass." Pocketing the gem, I pivoted out, Joric muttering "prancy gnome" into his loupe.
The street felt louder now, angles sharper. My pulse thudded in sync with distant forge-hammers. I needed to rinse the frustration out of my mouth—preferably with something fermented—while I regrouped. The Drunken Cedar sat across the square, shutters thrown open, laughter spilling onto cobbles. I slipped inside.
Warm light washed over oak beams, and the scent of spiced ale hit like nostalgia for a life I'd never had. I flagged the barmaid—freckles, curly auburn hair, apron smudged with foam. Her eyes widened the instant she saw me.
"Well, aren't you a darling sight after a night shift," she breathed, leaning far enough over the bar to test the apron's stitching. "First drink's on the house, handsome."
I managed a tight smile. Behind her, a status ticker advanced: [NPC Affinity: Mara (Barmaid) → +10]. Behind me, three local players at a corner table stopped their dice game mid-roll. The largest—broad-shouldered dwarf avatar named Rockjaw—followed Mara's gaze to my face, then to the free mug she slid across.
Rockjaw's expression soured like milk in summer. "Oi, bar-girl," he called. "Since when do miners get charity?"
Mara fluttered lashes. "Since he smiled proper."
Dice clattered. Chairs scraped. The table-top trio rose—Rockjaw flanked by two human brawlers in mismatched chain shirts. I'd seen the type: mid-level skirmishers who farmed tavern quests for easy coin and easier ego.
Rockjaw stomped forward. "You raking special favors, gnome?"
I lifted palms. "Just thirsty. No harm meant."
He jabbed a stubby finger at my chest. "Harm's already done. Mara's ours. So's this corner of town." Obviously territorial rights worked like seat licenses now.
I tried stepping around him. He grabbed my cloak, yanking hard enough to spin me. [WARNING: PvP flag will toggle in 10 s if assault continues] flashed near my health bar. Hearts hammered inside my ribs—somewhere in Perth my real body echoed the adrenaline.
Rockjaw's buddies circled. One cracked knuckles; the other slid a sap from his belt.
Time slowed. I catalogued exits, weight of my pick, latency. Fighting three half-drunk thugs wasn't impossible, but I risked dropping the gem and half my silver if I died. Smarter to avoid.
"Look," I said, voice even. "You can have my stool. I'll leave."
"Too late," Rockjaw grinned, drew back a fist—
A feathered arrow thunked into the floorboards between us, quivering. A calm tenor spoke from the doorway: "Pick on someone with matching brain cells, yeah?"
A ranger stepped into the light—tall human, leather jacket polished from miles of brush, bowstring humming. I recognized him from the Bristlecone noticeboard: Rowan Ash, a hunter-crafter known for escort contracts. He nocked another arrow casually.
Rockjaw hesitated. PvP odds had just shifted.
Rowan's gaze flicked to me. "You all right, friend?"
"Better now," I said.
Rockjaw spat. "Not worth the bounty," he grumbled, though I doubted any existed. He shoved past, sweeping a half-full mug off a table in petty exit tax. His cronies followed, muttering about "flash-teeth gnome."
The PvP timer canceled with a chime. My shoulders unclenched. Mara exhaled audibly, then hurried to mop spilled ale.
Rowan offered a hand. "Name's Rowan. Funny what jealousy does when ale's cheap."
I clasped forearm. "Orefinder. Thanks for the save."
Rowan waved it off. "Saw the dwarf jeweler try to gut your price earlier. Figured you could use backup." He cocked a brow. "That amethyst's worth at least six gold cut. You still holding it?"
"Yeah. Haven't found a fair buyer."
He leaned closer, voice low. "Fat lot of folks in Flintspar allergic to competition. Joric's been rigging scales since beta. But the guild appraisal office pays market if you have a sponsorship. I've got one."
"You're offering to vouch?"
Rowan shrugged. "Call it payment for free entertainment."
We finished our drinks—Mara slipped me a wink and another uptick in affinity—then stepped back into morning glare. We cut through stalls to a stout granite building emblazoned with crossed hammers: Flintspar Crafting Guild Headquarters. Inside, dwarven clerks and gnome accountants shuffled parchment faster than rockfall.
Rowan exchanged greetings with a clerk named Lidia, produced a sigilled copper badge, and gestured me forward. I laid the violet gem on velvet. Lidia inspected with professional detachment, then stamped a slip.
"Market weight eleven carats, clarity minor inclusions," she intoned. "Standard payout: 620 silver. Guild fee two percent."
I blinked. Six hundred and twenty. Ten times Joric's offer. [Transaction Complete → +608 s 60 c | New Balance: 780 s 0 c] scrolled across my UI. That converted to roughly AUD 390—half a week's Perth rent or three new pairs of school shoes for Anna and Mitya .
"Pleasure doing business," Lidia said, already turning to the next client.
Rowan grinned. "Told you."
We stepped outside. My pockets suddenly felt heavier—both in coin and possibility. "I owe you."
"You owe me nothing," Rowan said, then added with a sly tilt, "Although I wouldn't say no to steady ore supply. Smelting's my side hustle."
We traded player IDs. [Friend Request: RowanAsh → Accepted]. I liked the symmetry of a miner paired with a craftsman who knew how to turn rock into profit.
Rowan glanced toward the tavern. "Watch your back around here. That face of yours is a magnet. Heard rumors of a hidden debuff players get for maxed appearance. Maybe rumors are true."
I exhaled. "Starting to suspect the same."
He clapped my shoulder. "There's a fletcher down the lane sells decent stamina draughts cheap. Stock up, then ping me if you pull gold ore; better margins when refined. Good luck, Orefinder."
He strode off, leaving boot-prints in dust and the faint smell of pine tar.
I hit the potion stall, trading eighty silver for three stamina potions, two bone-set phials, and a cloth mask impregnated with blue-leaf—a hedge against rat fever. Weight checked, I ducked into a banker's kiosk: a polished brass automaton behind iron bars. "Deposit 650 silver," I said, voice flat.
≪OrbCoin Exchange Processing…≫ The machine whirred. ≪Successful transfer: 6 Gold 50 Silver → AUD 325≫. Another pulse of relief panged in my chest. A quarter of this week's debt service handled in one keystroke.
Siblings safe for a few more days, I told myself. But Sunday's bigger payment still loomed—less than seventy-two real-world hours away . I needed another strike of fortune or a many-hour grind session. The Plague of Claws multiplier beckoned; rat fangs were selling at premium while the event lasted.
As I left the bank, a guild bulletin board caught my eye—parchment shreds layered like scales. One fresh notice read:
MISSING INVENTORY ALERT — Rat Fang Shipments Stolen on South Road. Caravan Guards Wanted. Payment: 45 s + share of loot.
Forty-five silver wasn't glamorous, but the route skirted mining outcrops ripe for side digs. Rowan might sign on; caravan jobs fit his skillset. Cooperation meant fewer ambushes and more hands to lug ore.
I tore the notice down. System chimed: [Quest Accepted: "Fang Run Escort"].
Stomach rumbled. I swung back toward the Drunken Cedar hoping Mara still had that smile—though I'd settle for stew. Halfway across the square a shadow cut me off: Rockjaw again, cheeks redder, breath whiskey-thick.
"Heard you found a new babysitter," he slurred. "Still reckon your shiny face needs correction."
He swung. I ducked. His fist skimmed the hood. Masonry cracked behind me.
The fight timer auto-flagged PvP, and this time there was no friendly ranger arrow. I drew the pick, heart pounding. Rockjaw's buddies flanked right. Three against one again, only sober wasn't on the menu.
Rockjaw lunged. I sidestepped and hooked his ankle with the pick haft; he toppled, beard smearing dust. Buddy Two raised a sap—I answered with a low arc that clipped his shin: –18 HP ticked above his health bar. Not fatal, but attention-getting.
The tavern doors burst open; Rowan sprinted out, bow ready, arrow already lit with an electric glyph. Mara followed clutching a serving tray like a shield.
"Still at it?" Rowan groaned, loosing an arrow that grazed Buddy One's shoulder: –12 HP + Shock. Electricity crackled; the thug stiffened.
Rockjaw rolled upright, roared, and charged me. My pick connected with his pauldron, metal shrieking. Pain shuddered through my arm; his shoulder bar flared red at the impact point. He swung a haymaker; I tucked under, drove an elbow into his sternum, then hopped clear. The pick's durability dipped: Dur 44/50.
Crowd gasps rose. Somewhere a whistle blew—NPC town guards jogging with pikes lowered. Rockjaw froze mid-swing. Guards here didn't joke about street brawls.
One guard barked, "Drop weapons!" We obeyed. The guard scanned nameplates, frowned at Rockjaw's recent infractions queue—likely long. To me he offered a single line: "Press charges?"
I glanced at Rockjaw—now dust-caked, rage mixing with dread. Maybe a week in stocks would teach him something, but I saw desperation in his eyes I recognized from mirrors back in Perth. "No charges," I said. "Moment's heat."
Guard nodded, still slapped them with a 100 copper fine each and a one-hour drunk tank debuff. Thugs shuffled off, Rockjaw avoiding my eyes.
Rowan exhaled a low whistle. "Merciful for a 'pretty-boy.'"
I shrugged. "Time's money. Court fees aren't."
Mara slipped between us, pressing a fresh ale into my hand. "On the house again—and you're barred from trouble for the next hour, heard?" She winked, yet her scolding felt genuine.
Inside, over barley stew, Rowan leaned in. "You realize half the nonsense today stems from that face mod. Ever consider cosmetic gear? Hood, mask—more than just cloth. Something that nerfs appearance stat."
I shoveled stew. "Didn't think looks matter in a mine."
"In towns they do. I know a leatherworker in Bristlecone—makes charm-dampening masks for role-players who hate flirting NPCs. Cheap."
I grinned around a spoonful. "Add that to tomorrow's shopping list."
He raised his mug. "To profitable anonymity."
We clinked. System flagged a minor social achievement: [Achievement Unlocked: Drinking Buddy I – +1 % XP gain in taverns]. Not earth-shattering, but nice.
After lunch we hammered out logistics. Rowan would gather caravan details; I'd mine open nodes along the south road while providing shovel muscle at waypoints. Split profits: eighty-twenty to escort pay, whichever side pockets the ore keeps it. Fair.
He parted for the stables. I lingered under the tavern awning, rain starting—fine metallic drizzle that caught the Dyson sun's rays like liquid glass. Flintspar's stonework gleamed wet; smoke curled from chimneys; somewhere a lute tinkled. For a moment I let the debt fade, breathing mountain-cedar air.
Then I checked the real-world clock overlay: Saturday, 3:12 p.m. Perth time. Forty-five hours until Luca's next handshake—likely bone-crushing if I failed. My transfer queue showed AUD 410 awaiting bank clearance; decent, but shy of the AUD 1,200 installment. I'd need tonight's rat-fang haul, tomorrow's caravan pay, and maybe a miracle gemstone or two.
I tugged my cloak around shoulders, stepping into rain. The path east led toward Tunnel 4, where plague rats spawned like clockwork and copper veins grew beside the corpses. I could smell the ore already—a metallic promise riding ozone.
As I passed Joric Gemworks, I caught the dwarf in the doorway, arguing with guards about forged scales. When he noticed me he looked away, cheeks a dull crimson. I almost felt sorry for him—almost.
[Reputation Update: Flintspar Crafting Guild → Neutral (+5)] scrolled. Funny how honesty paid interest over time.
Outside the southern gate, I paused to tighten boot laces. Rain pelted the earth, washing rat tracks into dark mud. I tapped the side of my helm, activating Ore Sense. The glitchy HUD overlay pulsed a soft gold in peripheral vision, pointing deeper underground—galena, iron, maybe pockets of silver. Cool-down timer started at its new, stuttered sixty seconds. I could almost hear the Omega-289 anomaly crackle in background code , but for now the perk held steady.
Downhill, the valley floor flickered with torchlights: other grinders hunting rats before the server event expired. Competition meant risk, but ore nodes refreshed faster under event rules. I set jaw, hefted pick. The rain tasted like iron filings on my tongue.
Time to work.
—
Night had smothered the sky by the time I slogged back through Flintspar's gate, leather pack bulging: thirty-two rat fangs, forty-odd copper ore, and two surprise silver nodes that triggered under Ore Sense's subtle tug. Boots squelched. My stamina bar blinked red, hovering below ten percent.
At the plaza fountain I spotted Rowan beside a hawker stall, rain dripping off his hood. "Caravan leaves at dawn," he said. "South road's rough, but paymaster's good for the coin."
I nodded, meaningful fatigue weighing down voice: "See you first light."
He clasped my wrist. "Also grabbed this." Rowan pressed a folded gray half-mask into my hand—soft suede stitched with an emblem of crossed axes. "Charm dampener. Cost me two fangs."
Gratitude welled unexpected. "I'll pay you back."
"Consider it investment. Fewer bar brawls mean fewer arrow expenditures." He winked, heading for the inn.
I slipped the mask on. A faint static crackled; UI flashed: [Item Equipped: Drab Suede Mask — Appear-Cha –4 (capped)]. Relief flickered. Maybe tomorrow vendors would look at me like a miner instead of a rival suitor.
Outside Flintspar's tiny temple I bound for safety, then logged out. Lights inside the rig dimmed; pod hatch hissed open; stale apartment air replaced mountain cold.
My holo-watch read 04:47 a.m. Perth. I stretched cramped muscles, padded into the kitchenette. Bills still sagged on the fridge, but the notification light on my bank slate glowed green: transfer cleared. Balance: AUD 942. Progress. With tomorrow's caravan I could break four digits—closer to the goal.
I brewed instant kava, listening to the real-world rain drum corrugated roofing, and allowed myself thirty seconds of satisfied silence.
Luca still circled. Debt still loomed. Tunnels still collapsed on careless miners. But for the first time since I'd bought a leaky pod in shabby Subiaco, I wasn't alone down there. I had an ally who could strike arrow-straight, a gem-proof reputation growing, and enough coin to keep my siblings' lights on another week.
I toasted the gray dawn creeping through blinds. "Na zdorovie," I muttered. Then I killed the lights, climbed back into the pod, and keyed login. Dawn in Endless Worlds was only four hours away, and ore didn't wait for debtors.
Chapter 7: Bonds and Lessons
Drizzle drummed on the pod shell when I jacked back into Endless Worlds, but inside the Dyson Sphere dawn was clean and sharp, a white-blue halo flaring around the miniature sun. I materialized at Bristlecone's infirmary gate exactly where last night's bind stone had promised, my breath puffing tiny pixels in the chill air. A quick inventory check showed everything ready for the caravan escort: three stamina pots, two bone-set phials, the freshly repaired pick, and Rowan's suede charm-dampening mask cinched snugly over nose and mouth. The UI still listed Debuff – Cursed Handsomeness (mitigated) in muted red, but the number beside it read –1 (capped) instead of the usual –5. Progress.
A horn blast rolled down the muddy main street—one long note, two short—summoning contract guards to the south gate. I jogged past cedar-planked storefronts, boots splashing through puddles that reflected torch-flame and the ghost of the aurora. Farmers, rat-fang peddlers, and half-awake miners cleared a path. Last night's bar scuffle must have made gossip rounds; more than one NPC gave me a speculative glance before noticing the mask and deciding I was someone else's problem.
The caravan mustering yard smelled of wet hay and axle grease. Two draft moose snorted steam beside a lumbering ore-wagon, their antlers hung with jangling copper bells. Rowan Ash leaned against the tailgate, bow unstrung but close. His breath steamed through a grin when he saw me.
"Right on time, Orefinder. Thought pretty boys slept in."
"Da, when coin waits," I replied, slipping a Slavism that made him chuckle. We bumped forearms—a habit already comfortable.
A grizzled dwarf in reinforced mining leathers stomped toward us. Hedrum Stonehand—Rowan's acquaintance and the contract lead—looked every year of his claimed level twenty-two. His beard was tucked behind a riveted breastplate, and a survey-hammer hung at his belt like a challenge to all softwood supports.
"This the gnome?" Hedrum asked, voice pitched like gravel in a chute.
Rowan nodded. "Picks ore where maps say there's none."
"Fine. Two simple instructions, tunnel-rat." Hedrum held up fingers thick as drill bits. "One: stay behind the lead shield if the ceiling groans. Two: if we call for braces, you hammer 'em home—no questions." He thrust a bundle of collapsible pine struts into my arms. "You break it, you buy it."
"I copy." I tested the lock-joints—sturdy, eight-second deployment with a good mallet strike.
Our fourth escort joined then: Liora Velkyn, an elven herbalist carrying more vials than I could name. She offered a quick bow and handed each of us a sachet of blue-leaf blended with bristlecone bark. "Anti-rat-fever, chew if you're bitten," she said, voice musical but brisk.
With contracts acknowledged—[Quest Updated: Fang Run Escort (Team 4/4)]—we rolled out. The wagon creaked through Flintspar's open gates, bells chiming a warning rhythm. NPC guards saluted Hedrum, who returned a curt nod; apparently the dwarf's reputation bought smooth bureaucracy.
The south road ducked beneath leaning spruce and wound toward the foothills. Frost clung to needles, sparkling like powdered glass. A kilometer in, wagon wheels splashed across runoff from last night's rain, muddy water eddying around iron-shod spokes. The moose lowed, twitching ears at distant chittering.
Rowan passed me a coil of tripwire. "Lesson one," he said. "Terrain fights for you if you anchor it right." He knelt by a pair of natural boulders framing the path, his fingers moving with carpenter's confidence. "Anchor there and there—leave enough slack for a cave hound's chest, not a moose's ankle."
I mirrored his knots. The wire vanished under a dusting of leaves. A System tip blinked: [Skill Learned: Trapping 1]. I liked the tidy efficiency of that number—room to grow, no flash.
Fifteen minutes later we reached the breach: a squat tunnel mouth supported by timber posts silvered with age. Beyond, darkness swallowed the road. Lantern-light sputtered from brackets on the wagon, pushing back a meager cone. Hedrum raised a fist—halt.
"Listen," he muttered. Above the soft clop of moose hooves, I caught it: faint shuffling inside stone, sharp squeals, the tick of claws on shale. Plague rats, lots of them, restless from the event's spawn multiplier.
Liora loosened a vial of violet vapor. "One toss clears light infestations," she whispered.
Hedrum grunted. "Hold. We don't burn stock unless bled."
We advanced. The air cooled, smelled of damp chalk. Ore Sense pulsed once—a soft gold tug southeast, below the tunnel floor. Probably more copper or stray silver nuggets. I logged the vector mentally; this was no time for side-digs.
Claws skittered overhead. I peered up—thin cracks in the shale ceiling, dust sifting down. Hedrum waved me forward with the pine struts. "Brace row two," he barked.
I drove the first support against a warped beam, swung the sledge Rowan handed me. Wood rang; the lock joint snapped open, wedging firm. Gray dust ceased falling. System pinged: ≫ Structure Stability +4 % | Carpentry +0.1. Satisfaction, crisp and mechanical.
The tunnel narrowed into an S-curve. Hedrum guided the wagon through with low whistles, steady as a shipwright. We passed centuries-old rune marks—dwarven survey glyphs faded by mineral seep. At the second bend, Rowan halted and gestured to a damp wall seam. "Hear that?"
I did—a hollow slosh, water moving under pressure. Hedrum cursed softly. "Sub-conduit must've burst from yesterday's storm. If it floods, cart's stuck." He swung his hammer against stone; a chunk broke away, revealing a hairline fissure pulsing water.
He turned to me. "Gnome, your pick still clean?"
"As morning snow."
"Take Rowan, angle-tap relief channels every third meter downhill. Liora, prep sealant paste."
Rowan and I hustled ahead of the wagon. Every three strides I set pick to wall, chiseling diagonal sluices that bled water to the ditch. It was rhythmic work, rock dust rising sweet as memory; muscles thrummed. UI ribbons stacked: [Mining ↑ 8 → 8.1], [Water-Control Technique Discovered]—nothing flashy, but incremental like coins in a jar.
Hedrum's voice thundered from behind. "Move!"
A roaring wave answered—some dam upstream failing. We sprinted, boots slipping, as water surged. The wagon lurched, wheels cutting trenches in mud but holding. Liora hurled her violet vial; it burst in a hissing cloud, rapid-hardening foam forming a temporary staunch against the worst leak. Spray peppered my cloak, stinging cold.
The torrent stabilized into a knee-deep runnel, guided away by our cuts. Hedrum clapped my shoulder once, the gesture heavier than praise. [Reputation +5: Miners' Guild – Hedrum Stonehand] flashed.
We pressed deeper, torches popping resin sparks. The map marked only another five hundred meters before daylight, but dungeon geometry always lied. Every step felt carved from someone else's overtime.
A shadow peeled from the wall—too tall, too lean for rats. Rowan's arrow was nocked before I breathed. The thing lunged—cave hound, gray fur patchy with mange, saliva hissing on stone. My body reacted: pick swung upward, steel spike raking across its jaw. Red damage ticker: –36 HP (Critical Weak Point).
Rowan's arrow followed, pinning the beast's left foreleg to shale. It howled, ripped free, leapt for his throat. Liora's vial shattered between them, releasing a lavender fog; the hound inhaled, staggered, eyes glazing. Hedrum finished it with a hammer blow that sounded like quarry dynamite. Blood spattered my mask—warm, metallic.
System spat rewards: [Beast Defeated ×1 | XP +120]. More crucially, a new readout: [Skill One-Handed Weapons ↑ 3 → 4]. Paltry by warrior standards, but stone by stone mountains rise.
We left the carcass for later retrieval; plague-hound pelts sold to alchemists for toxin resist brew. The wagon rattled on.
So it went: hours of start-stop progress, braces hammered, wires strung, hounds dispatched. The game slid into that trance state where every action found groove, like swinging a sledge to the beat of one's pulse. My stamina bar hovered at half, refusing to dip lower—adrenaline and purpose forming their own buff.
At the deepest point, the tunnel broadened into an abandoned loading bay, old rails buried beneath silt. Sunlight speared through a jagged ceiling fissure far above, illuminating dust motes like galaxies. Hedrum called a halt for lunch.
We sat on crates of cured timber, sharing NPC-issued rations—hardtack and onion cheese. Liora brewed chicory in a dented tin. Conversation drifted to IRL matters, as it often did among wage-players.
Rowan asked quietly, "You grinding debt or tuition?"
I hesitated, then shrugged. "Debt. Family-sized." No need for the sordid details of Luca's ledger, but honesty felt easier in torchlight.
Hedrum grunted sympathy. "Same. Mine's mortgage and my daughter's braces. Real teeth, real silver." He flashed a grin of crooked molars to prove insurance shortfalls.
Liora raised her tin. "Here's to honest work paying honest bills." We clinked cups. Somewhere overhead, stone shifted like a sleeping god.
Lunch done, Hedrum gestured me to the bay's western wall—a honeycomb of half-collapsed cross-tunnels. "Teach you something," he said. He struck a beam with his hammer; a resonant thud answered. "Hear that hollower tone? Void beyond—unstable. Good miners reinforce before excavating. Poor miners get eulogies."
I mimicked his strike on the next beam—solid thunk. "Sturdy."
"Exactly. So you alternate reinforcements, one stable, one suspect. Buy time if roof comes down." He walked me through installing a diagonal brace across a sagging support. His tutorial voice mixed gruff patience with occasional profanity, like a drill sergeant of carpentry. After fifteen minutes the cross-tunnel's danger rating dropped from red to amber on the HUD. [Skill Carpentry 1 → 2] winked.
Rowan whistled low. "Not bad for a desk geologist."
I wiped sweat. "Desk was repossessed, so tunnel it is."
The game clock ticked past noon. We resumed the haul, wheels squealing until rails re-emerged and eased the load. Hedrum relaxed fractionally once the rails took weight—less chance of axle snap.
Near the exit slope—a natural skylight too narrow for the wagon—our earlier tripwire proved its worth. A trio of plague hounds charged, fangs sluicing foam; the first caught the wire, pitched nose-first into dirt as Rowan loosed an arrow through its spine. The second hound leapt over its companion only to catch my pick mid-air. I felt vertebrae shatter through the handle's vibration. The third slammed into Liora's whistling bomb; purple smoke swallowed its yelp.
System scrolled loot: Cave Hound Fang ×3 (Uncommon), Tainted Hide ×2, Quest Item: Rat-Fang Crate (Intact). The caravan quest bar advanced: [Supplies Delivered 41 / 50].
"Almost," Hedrum muttered, yanking the tripwire free for reuse. We hauled the dead beasts onto the wagon roof—they'd fetch bounties at Bristlecone's tannery.
The tunnel mouth widened, revealing a pale strip of overcast sky. We rolled into daylight, wagon wheels crunching frost-encrusted gravel. Hedrum gave a low whistle; a pair of NPC drivers waved from the rendezvous clearing. They hitched replacement elk to the cart and handed Hedrum a wax-sealed receipt.
≪Quest Complete: Fang Run Escort≫ flashed, accompanied by a gratifying jingle. Payout distribution windows opened:
+45 s base pay
+7 s hazard bonus (structural repair)
+3 s loot share (fangs, hides)
Total Received → 55 s
My purse ticked to 835 s 15 c—roughly AUD 1 040 once converted. A tremor of relief chased the grime on my skin. Luca's Sunday deadline suddenly looked survivable.
But the numbers mattered less than another notification:
[Level Up! 6 → 7]
STR +1 → 13
VIT +1 → 15
One-Handed Weapons +1 → 5
Trapping +1 → 2
Biggest jump since the rat den. Felt good.
We lounged on a fallen spruce while paperwork finished. Rowan produced a small coil of silver wire and taught me a variant spring snare. Liora traded blue-leaf seeds for rat-fang powder, planning tonics. Hedrum smoked a foul-smelling pipe, exhaling shapes that drifted like dwarven runes.
A familiar squat silhouette emerged from the road's bend, leaning on an iron-shod cane. Old Gus, beard triple-braided, spectacles fogged from exertion. My heart jumped—the mentor had travelled far from his usual haunts.
"Well, butter my beard, if it ain't the tunnel terrier himself!" Gus barked. He glanced over our team. "Rowan Ash, still avoiding proper smithing, I see. Hedrum, you old stone-slug, tolled another kid into carpentry?"
"Better than leaving supports to rot," Hedrum retorted, but his smile softened canyon-lines around eyes.
Gus turned to me. "Word reached the guild that a gnome braced seven cave walls before lunch and kept his moose alive. Wanted to see myself." He tapped my mask. "Still hiding that face, eh? Wise. Pretty ore's no use if you're too busy swatting suitors."
I laughed. "Trying to keep bar fights to weekly occurrences."
Gus produced a folded map—ink smudged, edges singed. "You've proven copper, silver, even led a convoy. Time you sniff iron proper. This here"—he tapped a circled cavern north-east—"is Nettletop Mine. Abandoned after a cave ghost rumor, but the assays show banded iron formations and maybe magnetite. Guild'll pay triple market for first-strike claims made this month."
Rowan whistled. "That's deep orc land. But the road's clear if you cut through Slatewater gulch."
"Adventure scented with profit," I murmured.
Gus winked. "Name suits you, Orefinder. Just trust your nose—and maybe that little perk you're not telling folks about." He tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially. My stomach fluttered—did he know about Ore Sense? Or was it mentor intuition? Hard to tell with dwarves.
Hedrum folded the map thrice, handed it back to me. "If you go, take proper crew. Supports there are paper-thin."
Rowan elbowed me. "You'll need a ranger."
I nodded slowly, mind racing through debt ledgers, real-world clocks. One big iron contract could wipe Luca's balance and leave margin for rent, maybe even new shoes for Mitya. Two days remained. Could it be done? Risk high, but so was the reward.
Liora pushed a bundle of vials into my satchel. "Ghost-ward oil," she said. "Smear on tools; wraiths hate the scent."
"Payment?" I asked.
"Consider it my share for the map." She smiled. "And maybe ask me along when ghosts start singing."
Gus slapped his cane on rock. "Enough scheming. Tavern time—the Drunken Cedar keeps a table for caravan heroes." His grin turned sly. "First round's on the Guild."
We laughed, fell into step toward Flintspar. The road back felt shorter; bruises ached, but the camaraderie wrapped them in warmth. Even the miniature sun peeked between clouds, painting spruce tops gold.
Inside the gate, townsfolk parted for us, nodding respect. I caught Rockjaw at a distance, still in drunk-tank stocks; his eyes widened as I passed, then dropped. No challenge today—fine by me.
At the tavern hearth, mugs clinked. Mara served us stew heavy with venison and root veg. The mask stayed on, but she gave a wink anyway; maybe charm found cracks regardless. The ale tasted of rye and victory.
Hedrum drafted a quick contract on scrap parchment: Nettletop expedition, equal loot split, guild filing rights assigned to me as discoverer, Hedrum chief engineer, Rowan quartermaster, Liora medical lead. Gus would vouch to the Guild council. Signatures flowed; wax sealed with Hedrum's pick-stamp.
A final System ping blossomed like a quiet sunrise behind my eyelids:
[Achievement Unlocked: First Company Formed – "Tunnel Brotherhood"]
Passive Buff: +2 % group skill gain when teamed with signed members.
I leaned back, mug warming palms. For the first time since stepping into this world, the endless tunnels felt less like lonely wage cages and more like a sprawling workshop shared with friends. Debt still ticked, danger still lurked, but a sturdy brace now buttressed the fear.
I lifted my drink. "Za druzhbu," I said—to friendship. Four mugs met, iron ringing like forge song.
System chimed agreement. And somewhere in the code's hidden
Chapter 8: Claim-Jumpers Confrontation
The second the login swirl emptied and the Crooked Mountains snapped into focus, I could tell the server's tide had turned. The early-morning light beneath the Sphere's miniature sun carried a hard, metallic cast, as if the simulation itself smelled iron on my breath. Night frost clung to chimney tiles in Bristlecone, spidersilk silvering every edge; spruce branches sighed under the tiny weight and shook crystals onto plank roofs like celebratory confetti. The world felt expectant—no tavern chatter, no wagon clatter, only distant pick hammers echoing in mineshafts as other grinders tried squeezing last drops from the Plague-of-Claws event before patch downtime. In the hush I almost heard Luca's ticking real-world deadline, forty-one hours away.
My HUD opened with the soft thunk of sliding drawers: Lv 7 Gnome Artificer – Orefinder. Purse read 835 s 15 c—AUD ≈ 1 040 converted. Close, but not bone-set close. The bank note icon blinked amber, reminding me that the cutoff for same-day transfers into real currency ended at midnight Sphere-standard time; after that, wire delays might push deposits outside Luca's tolerance window. I'd need a breakaway haul—something to push my ingame balance past a thousand silver before sunset and get the transfer moving while the Australian banking backend was still awake.
That's why I was alone. Rowan, Hedrum, and Liora were still crashed in their IRL time zones—Rowan somewhere in the UK, Hedrum in South Africa, and Liora in the Philippines. The Nettletop charter was inked, but we'd booked it for tomorrow morning server time to give Hedrum's kid a dentist appointment, Liora a work shift buffer, and me a chance to wire tonight's spoils into Aussie dollars first. I'd promised to stay within Flintspar's patrol radius, but Gus's map and my Ore Sense tugged harder than common sense. "A peek can't hurt," I'd told Rowan in guild chat. "Just a geological survey." He'd answered with a yawning emoji and a single word—Careful—then logged out. Careful was relative when rent sharks smelled blood.
The plan: hike two ridges east to the abandoned Santa-Isabel gallery—one of the shallow capillaries feeding Nettletop's deeper system—take quick samples, land whatever surface lodes I could pocket solo, hop home before lunchtime. Santa-Isabel wasn't on Ironclad's official list; at least no watermark tags in guild forums. Low risk, high payoff iron nodules if the assay charts Gus slipped me proved right. The mask Rowan gave me stayed on; no sense stirring NPC attraction while sneaking around contested ground.
I exited Bristlecone's east gate in predawn cold, tripled-checking my loadout: pick at 41/50 durability; brace struts (six units); three stamina pots; one ghost-ward oil (thanks to Liora); and a single jar of cave-hound grease—flammable but perfect for emergency tunnel torches when lantern oil ran dry. The suede mask chafed, but the debuff line under Status still showed Cursed Handsom… –1. Worth the mild itch.
A brisk hike carried me past the cedar belt. Sap crystals glittered where the dyson sun's rays lanced through canopy gaps, prismatic flares winking each time a branch swayed. The path dwindled to game-trail switchbacks, then petered out entirely, leaving only scree and the faint scent of hematite riding the wind. Ten minutes later Ore Sense pulsed—a soft golden ripple on my periphery pointing dead ahead, southeast by east. Cooldown timer ticked from 60 s downward. Something rich lay buried, though the overlay shuttered and glitched into static for a heartbeat before clearing, like a stutter in a dirty lens. Ω-289 again, whispering.
On a ridge crest I paused, kneeling to study the strata. Red-brown till overlaying banded gray. Leaning in, I scraped with my pick tip, wetting the dust with a drip from my waterskin. The slush oxidized fast—a ruby stain—classic magnetite mixed with hematite and minor goethite. Promising. Gus's dot on the map looked increasingly prophetic.
The Santa-Isabel entrance materialized exactly where the contour lines suggested: a squat adit half-collapsed, frost-rimmed timbers sagging like old ribs. No torches, no flagged banners, no Ironclad "Property of" signs. Good. I toggled Bind Stone Available in the HUD—range too far from active spires. No respawn anchor if I died here. Not ideal, but I'd lived without nets before.
I ducked inside. The tunnel swallowed daylight after five meters, leaving only the flicker from my rune-lampe—essentially a minor cantrip gem hedged into a miners' cap. Drips echoed down a sloping drift; the air smelled sharp, almost bloody. Hollow, too—sound carried in long, pure notes, meaning the gallery ahead widened into serious chambers.
My boots crunched black ore crystals as I advanced. System pips chirped random environmental flavor text—[You step over hematite dust]—but no auto-aggro red markers pinged. Good. My pick head thrummed under my fingers like a tuning fork, magnetic signature responding to metal veins behind the wall. I swung on a seam, sparks dancing. The first chunk sheared free, weighty, dark, laced with silver flecks—high-grade magnetite. [Item Acquired: Magnetite Ore (Quality A) x1 | Base Value 4 s]. A four-silver rock was practically a lottery ticket when multiplied by a load-limit pack and Guild triple-pay contracts.
I logged haul/time ratio. Even with stamina cost, two hours of mining would finish Luca's bill. Elation rose hot and fizzy until the sound of voices drifted up-tunnel, echo making them appear omnidirectional.
"…told you the nosey gnome would break the seal eventually."
"…points for punctual prediction, but guild ledger says this gallery expired months ago. That means salvage rights—ours."
Boot steps scraped stone. UI picked up two player nameplates before their torch glows crested the bend: Ironclad-Wardog (Lv 18 Fighter) and Ironclad-MettleMaid (Lv 17 Paladin). Their plate armor gleamed gunmetal red, shoulders etched with guild's crossed-hammer insignia. I'd hoped Santa-Isabel was too small fry for them, but apparently their automated scanners flagged my activity or maybe a scout saw me leaving town.
I stuffed the magnetite chunk into inventory, wiped dust on cloak, then planted myself mid-tunnel. Backpedaling now would show weakness. And the ore on my belt had a zero-percent drop timer for another four minutes—die before that and fifty percent would scatter lootable by the killers.
I raised a hand, neutral gesture. "Morning, folks. Didn't expect company. Gallery looked long abandoned."
Wardog's helm speakers warped his voice into a choppy snarl. "Abandonment doesn't override guild claim." He flicked a menu in the air; a holographic deed popped up showing the Ironclad crest and a date—yesterday. They'd retro-claimed overnight, classic territory-expansion tactic.
MettleMaid planted a tower shield as tall as me. Her avatar's freckles contrasted oddly with the severe steel face-guard. "Licence fee," she said flatly, "fifty silver plus twenty-five percent of today's haul."
Ninety percent of all extortion guilds followed the same script: steep open demand, hidden threshold for violence somewhere lower. The trick was discovering their bottom line without showing fear. I wiped my mask to buy half a second, letting UI show their PvP flag statuses—yellow (discretionary)—and nearest NPC authority range: zero. The rust-eaten chain of command ended with us.
"Fee's steep," I said. "Miner's Guild schedule sets three silver per ton tithe on unguarded claims. Tell you what—I'll pay three silver per ton on extraction records, rounded up, once processed at the official weigh station in Flintspar." I kept voice calm, hands visible, pick unclenched.
Wardog's visor flared red—a cosmetic intimidation filter common among Ironclad's officers. "You negotiating with me like we're coin clerks?"
Negotiating was exactly what I was doing, but pointing that out seemed unwise. Instead, I manipulated the HUD to ping /local guard patrol. Nothing, of course. No spire, no law. Still, the system log of the ping remained—evidence. If they killed me after that, my guild lawyer (Hedrum) could file a griefing petition with server mods citing guard rescue call ignored. It wouldn't save my ore, but it raised post-incident costs.
"It's not negotiation," I said. "It's courtesy. I'm leaving in twenty minutes regardless. You can escort me out and collect a cut, or spend the next hour drafting incident forms after a PvP death. Your call." I rested the pick on my shoulder, casual as bedtime.
MettleMaid's lips pressed thin. She flicked her wrist. Party chat bubble popped between them—confidential to Ironclad. Their helms cocked in mutual appraisal. Ten-long seconds. I kept breathing slow, leveling with wardog's glowing eyes.
I could almost smell real-world sweat inside his haptic gloves when he finally spoke. "Half-ton ore limit. Ten percent cut payable on-site." He gestured at my pack. "We weigh now."
Bingo. The threshold revealed—hip-pocket bribe level. Ten percent of a half-ton still hurt, but anything below thirty felt like victory in bandit country.
"Deal," I said.
They produced a collapsible scale—Ironclad standard hardware. I dumped magnetite chunks onto the tray until counterweights tipped at 500 kg. The UI exploded with transaction prompts; I authorized automatic tithe, watching twelve silver vanish out of seventy-odd base value. Painful but survivable. My share still pushed purse over the magic 1 k barrier.
Scale done, they marked a rune on the adit wall, shimmering crimson. "Ironclad Claim Posted." Timer: 48 h. Any further mining would demand full guild permit. For me, the gallery might as well be gone. I accepted that loss.
"Appreciate your professionalism," I said, partly sincere—violence would've cost resurrection time I couldn't spare.
Wardog's visor dimmed. "Smart gnome. Tell your tunnel buddies the mountain's under new management."
"Understood." I packed the ore and began retreating. They didn't tail; their scanners probably confirmed I'd met the quota.
In the slope daylight I breathed properly. Purse read 1 115 s 15 c. Exhale. That translated to AUD ≈ 1 385, plenty to plug Luca's hole with a little buffer. I jogged down-trail, boots sliding on hoarfrost, adrenaline fusing to the back of my tongue like copper pennies.
Forty minutes later Flintspar's rooflines appeared, smoke curling. I headed straight for OrbCoin kiosk, deposited a thousand silver. The whirring clockwork clanked approval: ≪Transfer Scheduled to Bank (AUD) 500 → 1 200≫; exchange fees shaved the rest. Confirmation hit my IRL wrist pad—money inbound by 23:00 Perth. I swallowed the knot lodged there since chapter one.
The relief high lasted exactly two seconds before Rowan pinged me.
RowanAsh (private): You okay? Hedrum says Ironclad flagged Nettletop.
Orefinder: Alive. Paid them off in Santa-Isabel. They posted a 48 h claim.
Rowan: Blast. That knee-caps tomorrow's expedition.
Orefinder: Not entirely. Nettletop proper sits outside their radius. We approach from slatewater gulch as planned. Their claim's just gallery.
Rowan: Sure they'll stay contained?
Orefinder: They smell easy ore closer to town. My guess—they'll fortify there, not risk haunted shafts.
Rowan: Copy. Hedrum shifting loadout to anti-armor braces just in case.
Orefinder: I'll restock struts and ghost oil.
Rowan: Keep head down, pretty-boy.
Orefinder: Mask on 24/7.
I closed chat and turned toward Bristlecone's carpenter shack. On the way, Rockjaw's stocks were empty; release timer done. NPC guards eyed me but said nothing. Good. Fewer variables.
Inside the woodshop, I purchased ten reinforced struts, two beam jacks, and a tool upgrade: Carpenter's Square (+5 % brace placement accuracy)—discount courtesy of Hedrum's rep token. Pack weight jumped but survivable.
Supplies sorted, I logged out to handle IRL business—shower, call siblings' school, pay three overdue bills. Luca's portal accepted the AUD deposit with a smirking coin animation and flagged the account Current. Then I pinged the group chat:
Orefinder: "Debt cleared. Time to dig iron for profit, comrades."
Rowan shot back clapping emojis; Liora sent dancing leaf sprites; Hedrum just typed About damn time.
⁂
I re-logged two hours before the scheduled Nettletop departure to grind minor copper nodes, burn nervous energy, and let my stamina bar settle in. Clan chat buzzed with rumors: Ironclad convoys spotted hauling timber to Santa-Isabel; some said they'd set up a forward base. That confirmed my earlier hunch—they'd bunker near the shallow gallery, too risk-averse for ghost tales. Perfect.
Rowan appeared beside me at the infirmary bind, rolling shoulders. His ranger cloak bore new obsidian arrow pins—penetration perk. "Morning haul look good?" he asked.
I tossed him a magnetite shard. "Souvenir."
"Nice density," he whistled. "Their loss."
One by one our crew assembled: Hedrum with a fresh cobalt-steel hammer, Liora with bandolier clinking vials like wind chimes, and Gus leaning on his cane but eyes shining like he'd downed three espressos.
Gus pointed at the sky—storm-front simulation, black clouds churning around the micro-sun. "Good. Ghosts sleep deeper when thunder stomps overhead."
I didn't ask how he knew.
We set out. Slatewater gulch was a serpentine canyon carved by glacial runoff; sheer walls of schist and slate reflected ghost-white light, making the place feel like walking inside a cracked mirror. Rain began as a hiss, not drop but vapor. Liora coated our boots with resin to repel slick surfaces.
Ingulch, Ore Sense pulsed more frequently, though signals tangled—a confusion of ferrous signatures and something else, faint, static-laden. Every ping left an afterimage like glyphs burning on my retina, but resolving into nothing legible. Ω-289 flickered hotter.
Two hours in, canyon corridor sprawled into a fan of terraces. Dead lifts, rusted carts, and a spiderweb of defunct rails told of a once-booming mine town now devoured by time. Nettletop's maw yawned across the lowest shelf, a dark triangle dripping mist.
Rowan slid ahead, scouting. His signal came back: no Ironclad tracks, but scorch marks on stones—someone had fired mana bolts recently, maybe spooked by illusions. Good sign; orcs wouldn't waste mana on air.
Hedrum set anchor braces at the adit, rune-chalk marking retreat routes. I smeared ghost-ward oil over my pick; the stench—camphor and sulfur—made eyes water. Liora did same to her daggers. Rowan tied a sprig of white ash to his bow.
Inside, the mine breathed cold. Each exhale condensed into roiling coils, peeling upward and vanishing against unseen rafters. Torchlight reached perhaps five meters before swallowing itself. My charm-dampen mask filtered some of the smell, but heartbeats still boomed in skull.
Gus tapped wall once. "Band-iron layer, see? Those red bands—hematite; next black magnetite. Rich stuff." He sounded like a proud professor. "Now ghosts guard what dwarves abandoned." He walked with surprising speed, cane tapping out a code only stone understood.
First cross-tunnel, we struck lode. Magnetite seam two meters wide, visible even to untrained eyes. Hedrum's grin split beneath beard. "Braces first," he commanded. I planted struts, Carpenters Square boosting placement. UI confirmed: Structure Stability +15 %. Then we hammered. Sparks showered slate. Ore chunks spilled like dark star fragments into crates. Every five pieces, system tallied quest credit: [Nettletop Claim Progress 3 %].
Thirty minutes in, bar crept past fifteen percent and packs bulged. Extraction pace slowed as fatigue pings blinked red. I uncorked stamina pot, chugged syrup. Cool relief flooded avatar muscles.
Then chill deeper than cave air skittered down spine. A spectral moan rasped along drift, distant but unmistakable. Liora froze. "Wraith," she hissed.
We formed a semicircle. From gloom emerged a shape like smoke wearing memories of miner clothes—sunken eyes gleaming cobalt. System flagged it Banshee Miner (Lv 20 Elite, Ethereal). Weakness: blessed fire, strike tools coated in ghost-ward.
I'd prepped for this. My pick's head still wet with the oil. I stepped forward, channeling every rat-den adrenaline memory into motion. Swing—ghost leathered away, body smearing into afterimage. Rowan's holy-tipped arrow sang, slicing ectoplasm; damage ticker –42 (Critical). Hedrum's cobalt hammer glowed runes, smashing through half the specter; Liora popped a vial beneath its feet, flames roaring upward wreathing it in orange halos. The wraith shrieked, voice like pickpoints scoring chalkboard. I darted in, pick thrust into its chest, twisting. –60 (Ore-Blessed).
The wraith erupted into a cone of frost and iron filings that rattled across helmets like hail. We panted, HUD flickering. [Elite Defeated | XP +1 000]; progress bar zipped, but the victory dropped something rarer: Ectoplasmic Core (Epic). Market value unknown but probably guild treasure.
We didn't linger. The ghost's death-cries echoed, maybe summoning kin. Packs half full, we should have retreated, but Ore Sense pulsed extremely hard—like a heartbeat underfoot.
"Another lode," Gus whispered, eyes fever-bright. He led us left. The drift opened into a cavern wired with naturally occurring iron roses—radial hematite crystals glittering. In the center: a single vertical pipe of pure magnetite nearly a meter across, vein disappearing into darkness above and below. My geological brain melted with desire. A find like that warranted its own language.
The group exchanged looks. Rowan cocked eyebrow—time? I flashed three fingers—three crates worth. Hedrum shrugged, slammed braces. We went to work, picks biting, Liora cutting samples for assay. Progress bar vaulted: 40 %, 51 %, 60 %. Each chunk heavier than the last; inventory weight alerts screamed. With full packs, I still hated leaving ore untouched, but real-world schedule overshadowed greed.
Gus raised cane—it glowed faint blue. "We should go." No dissent.
Retreat was smooth until the last choke-point near adit. Ore Sense pulsed violently once more, but overlay formed an icon—warning triangle—then static erupted. Simultaneously the tunnel floor trembled. A roar—deep, bestial—rolled from behind. HUD painted red dots: Spectral Devourer (Lv 24 Boss).
We broke into sprint. Heavy packs clanged. From shadows a massive shape materialized: bones lacquered in ectoplasm, miner's lantern for a skull, jaw howling blue flame. It slithered on clawed forearms, body tapering into tail of shredded soulcloth. Boss bar slid across top of screen: 88 000 HP. Not beatable with current gear, not with iron-loaded packs.
Rowan fired a flash arrow; light popped, boss recoiled. "Move!" Hedrum hammered ceiling bolts; I slammed struts, popped beam jacks. Liora hurled jar of cave-hound grease at floor, then ignited it with vial. Fireball whooshed, burning barrier between us and beast.
Fury roared through flame. Bars ticked maybe one percent. Not enough. Gus kept pace despite limp, cane tapping rune pattern along wall. "Here!" He pointed to a cracked support. "One hit'll drop roof."
Hedrum and I swung together. Wood groaned. I activated Ore Sense manually—overlay highlighted structural stress lines glowing orange. I aimed pick at central node and smashed. Thunderous crack. Ceiling blocks shifted; shards rained. Rowan screamed a warning, grabbing Liora's collar, yanking her backward. I leapt aside as thousands of tons of slate cascaded, sealing drift mouth with a geyser of dust. Quest log flashed: [Nettletop Boss Stage – Optional Escape Successful].
We coughed, ears ringing, but alive. Devourer shrieked on far side, muffled. Gus grinned, dust white in beard. "Ghosts hate a good cave-in."
We stumbled into daylight at last. Stormfront overhead cracked lightning. System chimed [Quest Complete: Nettletop First-Strike Claim | Bonus: High-Grade Magnetite] then fired payout display:
Mine-claim bounty (triple rate): 300 s
Magnetite ore (raw): 480 s
Ectoplasmic Core (market avg.): 250 s
Ghost hazard bonus: 70 s
Team share split equal (4): +275 s each
My purse jumped to 1 390 s 15 c. Add earlier bank transfer, and I'd hit profitable territory. More important, claim rights logged under Tunnel Brotherhood—first founding credit.
Gus sealed forms, wax imprint. "Ironclad can't veto; they abandoned deeper levels." He winked. "Plus, ghosts are territorial."
I laughed, exhaustion turning it wet. Rain spattered faces as we bound to a temporary outpost spire. With packs stored, we marched down-valley toward Flintspar, thunder chasing. Halfway, Rowan broke silence. "Think Ironclad lets this slide?"
"Maybe," Hedrum rumbled, "or they come demanding fees. But contract law's on our side now."
We reached town at dusk. News of our claim preceded us; guild ledger board lit with "Nettletop Acquisition – Tunnel Brotherhood." Mara welcomed us with steaming bowls before questions could pelt. Rockjaw, free but bruised pride still mottling cheeks, watched wordlessly.
While ale foamed, a system mail chimed: Ironclad Council (Official). I opened it, heart quickening.
Congratulations on your pre-emptive work at Nettletop. Ironclad respects lawful claims. We propose cooperative shipment contracts at standard guild split (70/30 in your favor) to expedite ore movement. Standing by for negotiation.
Rowan leaned over, reading. "That's… civil."
"Because they fear ghosts," Liora said, smirking. "And see profit."
Hedrum raised mug. "We'll negotiate tomorrow. For now—celebrate."
I toasted, mask half lifted for first proper swallow in days. Flintspar hearth baked chill from bones. Notification scrolled, quieter than any jingle: ≪Bank Transfer Complete – Account Positive≫. Real-world debts zeroed. For the first time the Sphere's endless roof didn't feel like a rescue line—it felt like sky.
Gus caught my eye. "Told you your nose worked."
"Couldn't have done without the crew," I said.
Rowan slung arm around my shoulders. "Brotherhood, yeah?"
"Brotherhood." We clinked iron mugs, forge-bright clang ringing louder than thunder outside.
A final UI whisper etched in lower right corner just for me: Ω-289 Perk Stage II Unlocked – Ore Sense Radius Doubled; Anomaly Stability ++. The flicker resolved into a steady auric compass pointing somewhere beyond the Crooked range. Adventure beckoned, but tonight, profit and safety curled like smoke in rafters.