Chapter 13: Ironclad Strikes — “Red-Steel Shadows”
Chapter 13: Ironclad Strikes — "Red-Steel Shadows"
The victory hangover hit harder than Liora's Bull-Root draught. Even inside the pod, I could still taste cinder-smoke and cinnamon on the back of my tongue when the login swirl dissolved and Flintspar's workshop district materialized around me. It was dawn-plus-one after we'd finished the City Wall contract: enough time for mugs to empty, pipes to sputter out, and the Union crew to stagger into bed, pockets stuffed with gold they'd never dared to imagine.
I, apparently, had dreamed of ledgers instead of sheep.
Lv 11 Gnome Artificer XP 1840 / 7500
HP 510/510 Stamina 380/380
STR 16 AGI 15 CON 18 INT 15 WIS 13 PER 23 LUK 11
Mining 43.3 Surveying 36.2 One-Handed 6.3 Blacksmithing 8.1
Titles Skilled Laborer | Journeyman Miner | Bastion-Builder
Currency 17 g 02 s 11 c
Reputation City Builders – Trusted (260 / 300)
Ore Sense (cd 50 s) Stone Sense (active)
Debuff Cursed Handsomeness –1 (masked)
Seventeen gold. Counting it in the air felt dangerous, like juggling lit lanterns; one slip and everything would burn. Half the haul belonged to Luca's last invoice, the rest to food, rent, and replacing Anna's cracked phone screen. But before any of that could happen, hard assets—iron ingots, leftover magnetite, and the stacks of silver I'd been squirreling—had to become coin, and coin had to become Australian dollars.
So: market first, guilt later.
Outside the bunkhouse the snow had crusted into brittle glaze. My heel-spikes snapped through it with crisp, surgical pops. The black-smiths' trip-hammers were still asleep, but steam already hissed from thaw pipes that lined the main thoroughfare. The whole town smelled of coal tar, fox-grease lamp oil, and victory.
I nearly enjoyed it.
Joric Gemworks—Flintspar's fickle jeweler—was blissfully closed, his shutters iced shut. Good. The guild assay office opened at third bell, and I wanted our iron into their vault before any loose-tongued broker could ask why Local #71 suddenly dumped half a mountain of metal back onto the market.
Rowan trotted up as I rounded the square. His hood was down, auburn hair spiked with frost, eyes alive despite the early hour. He'd upgraded his cloak clasp to a silver acorn, a tiny indulgence that glinted whenever torchlight caught it. A souvenir of success.
"Morning, pretty-boy," he yawned.
"Morning, night-owl," I retorted, handing him a hot mug from the street vendor. "You sell your share yet?"
He shook his head. "Waiting. Price charts popped last night—Ironclad's buying frenzy drove silver two percent upward. If that trend holds till noon, we net extra."
I grimaced. "The same frenzy could mean scouts in town counting who's cashing out."
"I can count too," Rowan said, eyes narrowing. "And I can shoot faster than they can add."
Confidence was nice. Contingency better.
Inside the assay hall, Clerk Lidia looked politely hungover—dark circles under her rune-magnifier lenses. She still managed a professional nod. Half the Union lined up behind us: Kelly and Neris bantering, a stout elf named Feldun flipping a gold coin nervously.
We submitted lots in batches to avoid shocking the price board. Still, my satchel produced enough raw iron to make Lidia's eyebrows attempt escape.
"Full share?" she asked.
"Ledger credit," I confirmed. "Then 60 % to OrbCoin queue, priority wire."
She stamped away. Numbers scrolled across the sale screen:
Item
Qty
Rate
Total
Iron Ingot (Q:B)
337
1 s 85 c
623 s 45 c
Magnetite Lump (Q:A)
61
4 s 45 c
271 s 45 c
Silver Nugget (Q:A)
24
6 s 80 c
163 s 20 c
Minus guild fee, plus Bastion-Builder bonus, purse pinged: +9 g 60 s. The queue window flashed amber—ETA forty minutes real-world. Good.
Rowan deposited half his haul, winked. "Holding the rest. If prices spike harder, I'll triple-dip."
"Greed gets pickaxes in backs," I warned.
"And poverty gets you evicted," he countered. Fair.
Outside, sunrise bled jonquil over the ridge. We parted—he to fetch arrow shafts, I toward Old Gus's forge-shop for pick maintenance. Snow squeaked under boots. Somewhere a lute played a lazy tune, the world's way of suggesting nothing could go wrong.
Which of course is exactly when it did.
I felt them before I saw them. A prickling heat across the nape—the same instinct that hissed when Ore Sense pinged unstable, only colder. The crowded plazas blurred; I scanned for red-steel crests, and there—by the public weigh scales—three armored figures with hammer-and-tower logos etched in crimson enamel. Ironclad. Their helms tracked the growing queue at the OrbCoin kiosk like hawks over a mouse field.
They hadn't seen me. Yet.
Rowan's private ping darted up.
RowanAsh: Three red-steel vultures outside the kiosk.
Orefinder: Counted. Pulling back through tanner's alley.
RowanAsh: Good. We meet west gate. Stick to shadows.
I pivoted, ducked past a tannery's steaming hide vats, mask pulled tight. The alley stank like ammonia and spilled lichen dye—a blessing; the smell masked footsteps. I merged with a trio of dwarven cart-hands pushing salted hide crates and slipped into side streets until Flintspar's west wall loomed. Rowan appeared moments later, breath fogging.
"They're not the problem," he said quietly. "We are. Every time we cash out, the market flag pings their alert spiders. They don't need eyes in town—they have math."
I rubbed temples. "So what? We starve?"
"No." He glanced at my new pick—steel haft, cobalt edge. "We diversify. Off-load through Kestrel Outpost. No Ironclad presence there, only free traders."
"That's a four-hour cross-ridge haul. And Luca's transfer window—"
"Your bank already got today's money." Rowan's smile was thin. "Ease your pulse. We'll move tomorrow's iron north before dawn. Tonight we scout routes."
I sighed, energy already draining. "Fine. Hide first, route after breakfast."
Breakfast became dried peach slices and thick lard bread at the Drunken Cedar, eaten in the farthest booth beneath the cracked moose-skull trophy. Most Union miners were still queueing or half-asleep. I kept hood low, but Mara recognized my gait anyway, sliding coffee so dark it looked illegal.
Then Hedrum barged in, beard a storm cloud. He'd seen something bad.
"Gnome," he snarled. "Ironclad's leasing smelting time at Emberfall Forge two valleys over. They're converting raw ore to inventory inside guild halls—no tax. Prices will tank by week's end."
Rowan cursed. "Moonstone-skinned thieves."
"Any Union ore we don't sell today becomes scrap tomorrow," the dwarf finished.
Options flipped through my mind like cards: sell low and take loss, hide ore and starve, or risk a heavier haul through contested mines to new markets where prices hadn't crashed. All ugly except one.
"We go fetch higher-grade ore," I said slowly. "Something Ironclad can't replicate easily. Gold pockets east of Slatewater gulch. My map flagged anomalies last contract."
Rowan arched brow. "Gold attracts PKers."
"So does breathing," I shot back. "But gold sells above guild manipulations. One caravan haul buys next interest chunk."
Hedrum stroked beard. "Slatewater tunnels are mid-tier. Good ventilation, fewer wraiths. But roads are narrow—perfect ambush terrain."
"I'll pick two volunteers," Rowan decided. "Small profile. Kelly wants vengeance for crate sabotage; Neris is light-footed."
"Four bodies plus me—five," I corrected. "Union regs require at least three for any mid-tier dig."
Hedrum pounded table softly. "Approved. But take dynamite charges from the leftover stock. Ironclad likes narrow shafts? We make them narrower."
Our eyes met. The cave-in lesson.
Liora drifted over, sliding vials of amber syrup. "Combat stimulants," she whispered. "Temporarily raises CON by two, but taste is rancid honey."
I pocketed them gratefully.
Plan set. We would leave after lunch, hit Slatewater by late afternoon, grab thirty units of gold‐grade aurisite rumored inside fault chambers, and return through fox tunnels bypassing the main road. A clean snatch-and-sprint job.
Of course, nothing stayed clean.
***
The walk to Slatewater started crisp and bright: spruce weighed under powdered sugar, crows gossiping overhead. Our five-person file stuck close to the game trail, snow submerging our boots fingertips; mine felt six kilos heavier from dynamite, rope coils, and the cartographer cube.
Rowan paced ahead, eyes scanning slopes. Kelly lugged twin sledgehammers like they were feathers; Neris padded behind me, measuring silence with cat lashes. Hedrum brought up rear, his survey hammer doubling as skull-crusher.
Ore Sense did not like the path—pinging at weird intervals, sometimes foreshadowing ore where none belonged. Ω-289 glitch maybe reacting to tectonic stress beneath Slatewater. Cooldown flickered—50 s, 49, 51—uncertain.
We reached the gulch rim by mid-afternoon. It yawned below—a vein of graphite-gray slate sheets stacked like shuffled cards, a frozen river of stone. One ancient footbridge crossed the chasm: rotted pine planks bound by rivets rusted orange. Beneath, mist churned.
Neris hissed. "That'll collapse under Kelly's calves."
"I weigh the same as optimism," he protested.
I set the cartographer on a boulder. Arms extended, tapping rock. Seismic lines pulsed; one lit gold beneath the opposite cliff—ore pocket two hundred meters in. Perfect.
But the grid flashed scarlet near bridge supports. Unstable.
"New route," I said. "We anchor pitons into east face, rappel down twenty meters, cross on the ice ledge, and cut back up."
Kelly groaned; ropes were not his friend. Still, we rigged.
Descent proved easier than expected—frozen talus offered good spike holds. Halfway across the ledge Rowan froze, raised fist. We all clung still. From the western entrance, voices echoed—taunting, metallic.
"—gnome freak and his pet union pups."
Ironclad.
Through the mist, six figures emerged. Heavy plated shoulders, tower shields embossed with crimson hammers. The lead wore a captain's banner: Ironclad-Knockmaul Lv 18 Enforcer.
Rowan cursed silently, fingered bowstring. I tapped his boot: wait.
Our path forward blocked, climb back impossible without detection. We were stuck, the gulch wall to our right and a hundred-meter drop left. Mist swirled.
Knockmaul's laugh rattled plate rivets. "Gnome! Come trade ores or bones!"
So they knew exactly who they hunted.
I called up HUD: stamina 300/380. Buff syrups ready.
Hedrum whispered, "We blow the ledge?"
"Brings us down too," I muttered. Then Idea #2 ignited.
"Rowan," I breathed, tapping his quiver. "Arrow with a line. Shoot above their heads into that slate spur. When they shield-wall advance, we anchor the rope, pendulum swing under bridge, come up behind them through tunnel three. Surprise exit."
His grin matched the acorn clasp.
Execution: Rowan loosed arrow trailing spider-silk cord. It thunked into slate spire above Ironclad heads. They actually ducked. While they stared upward, we hammered pitons into cliff, clipped lines. Kelly first—weight made rope sing. He swung under bridge like a demolition ball, feet scraping ice crystals.
I followed. Cold wind knifed teeth; river mist licked face. Moments later boots hit rock shelf behind used-up rail track. Voices behind: "Where'd they go?"
We sprinted into an old survey drift—Tunnel Three in Slatewater's network, long abandoned. Hedrum dropped two brace wedges; I lit fuse on dynamite, stuck it in gap overhead. Neris slammed elbow into cracked support for extra stress. Then we ran.
Boom.
Ceiling collapsed, sealing our swing line exit. Screams behind as Ironclad watched their prey vanish. Perfect.
System update:
≪Controlled Collapse Logged — Terrain +25 % obstruction≫
Ironclad-Knockmaul trapped
Rowan panted. "I thought you wanted ore, not war crimes."
"Collateral creativity," I replied grimly. But we still needed gold.
Using cartographer and Ore Sense combination, I mapped the pocket. It lay behind two shale walls, through a chamber of rime-crystal spires. We advanced, torches sizzling. At the mouth, rumbling breaths greeted us—stoneback ursine, a subterranean bear of sorts, white fur crusted with quartz shards.
"Honey of all days," Kelly whispered.
Level 17 Elite, per UI. Not impossible, but time bled. I drew pick, swallowed Liora's combat tonic—CON +2 burn down throat.
Fight: Rowan's shock arrows sparked, stunning beast long enough for Kelly to slam sledge into knee joint. Neris zipped behind, daggers hamstringing. Hedrum roared dwarven curse, hammer smashing crystal crest. I lunged, Precision Strike triggered: pick spike pierced collar, gold XP numbers cascaded:
Stoneback Ursine Defeated XP + 980
Pelt rare drop. We dragged carcass aside.
Pocket time: the ore seam shimmered; cartographer pulses overlapped Ore Sense overlay, showing dense aurisite veins. Gold flecks peppered quartz.
Thirty minutes of furious chiseling produced thirty-three units aurisite, weight heavy but manageable. Neris bundled in felt. Kelly loaded sled runners rigged with rope.
Mission half-done, but return path? Tunnel network twisted like intestines; our collapse blocked original route, and Ironclad likely regrouped around primary exit.
I plotted new vector north toward Hawk's Notch egress—longer but unknown to guild maps. Cartographer helped but battery gears ticked low.
Exhaustion gnawed; stamina 120/380. Liora's stamina vial last one—gulp.
We trudged. After two hours, distant torchlight flickered: Knights patrolling. Not Ironclad—the torches were blue, town sentries of Kestrel Outpost. Freedom close.
Rowan exhaled relief—too soon.
Half-circle of Ironclad burst from behind ice pillars, arrow nocks glowing. They'd cut inside loop. Twelve players, Knockmaul among them—armor dented but intact, rage simmering.
"Hand over the ore," he barked. "Union quotas end here."
Kelly raised sled chain like flail. Hedrum shifted hammer stance. Rowan's arrow already drawn, steel broad-head kissing string.
I whispered, "Passive collapse overhead?" Ore Sense flared—fractures above. One dynamite left.
But something in me snapped: a cord stretched since debt, since first copper swing, finally twanged. Friend losses risked; indefinite war. Time to end or escalate.
"No," I said aloud. "No more caves falling. We fight."
Rowan shot first: arrow sang, lightning tether chaining to two shields—stun proc. Hedrum charged, hammer crack fracturing wrist-guard. Kelly slammed flail; Neris parried dagger into joint seam.
I toggled Precision Strike. Pick whistled, crunched helm crest. Damage numbers red.
Knockmaul countered with shield bash; HP bar dipped 70. I rolled, potion gulp, burning throat. Liora's tonic still buffed CON, but edges blurred.
Battle raged like a forge cyclone. For every guild strike, union gritted harder.
I spotted fracture overhead anyway—thin icicle stalactites. Picked up the dynamite, jammed fuse, slide threw up to roof cavity. Spark fizzle. Five-second timer.
"DOWN!" I roared.
We dove. Dynamite screamed birth of new thunder. Ceiling spalled; white slivers cascaded like death snow. Ironclad helmets cracked; three bars emptied instantly. Remaining scattered.
Knockmaul staggered, shield arm limp. I advanced, pick raised. He spat, "Cheating gnome." I slammed spike through visor gap. His avatar froze, dissolved grain by grain.
≪Ironclad-Knockmaul Defeated≫
Reputation: Ironclad Guild –150
Victory pings shallow consolation. Kelly bled—HP critical; potion applied just in time. Neris knelt over guild corpse loot but I ordered leave—they'd track flagged items.
We sprinted for Kestrel gates. Outpost sentries saw our union badges, waved us in, closing iron grate behind just as surviving Ironclad reached line. Safe zone immunity sealed.
Inside walls: torches haloed, snow fluttered. I collapsed to knees, breath tearing lungs. Rowan held me upright. Hedrum panted, "Losses?"
Neris counted heads. Kelly present. All alive. But guilt hung; this was luck thin as mica.
Outpost trader booth glowed. We off-loaded aurisite discreetly—prices 140 % higher here. Purse soared: +14 g. Enough to finish Luca's leash.
But Kelly's trembling fist held badge: our union patch saturated by blood overlay—In-Game death ironically flagged him for trauma debuff; he'd nearly died. The cost visible in eyes.
We camped overnight. Rowan stood watch; I wrote ledger entry:
Ironclad escalated to lethal ambush. One union member critical, no fatalities. Guild leader Knockmaul killed in self-defense. Expect retaliation.
System message pinged global minutes later—
Ironclad Guild Notice: "Effective immediately: BOUNTY—'Orefinder' gnome artificer. 1 g reward per confirmed kill, rising."
There it was. War declared, in gold ink.
I stared at the text until it blurred. Rowan's hand squeezed my shoulder. "We knew it would come."
"Not like this," I rasped.
"We face it." Hedrum limped over. "Walls fell on them. Let bigger stones fall again."
I couldn't muster reply. Instead I checked HQ:
XP + 2 050 → Lv 11 (5 890 / 7 500)
Mining → 43.5
Ore Sense stable — cd 50 s
As numbers scrolled, I felt nothing. Victory tasted like slate dust.
Later, by the outpost hearth, Kelly slept heavy, Neris sharpened blades, Rowan hummed a tired tune, Hedrum polished cracked hammer. I sat apart, eyes on dancing embers, mask removed, cursed debuff forgotten. Heat licked cheeks, thawed the chill but not dread.
Ironclad would not relent. They'd place watchers in every weigh house, stalk every tunnel. The debt clock might soon be least of my problems.
Yet a different clock ticked too: the one measuring how long I could keep siblings safe, keep union hopefuls dreaming. That clock only advanced by swinging picks, bracing ceilings—and now, rigging caves to bury enemies.
I clenched fist around new aurisite ingot. It was warm from forge, weighty with possibilities. Mythril whispers, deep seams, new markets far from red-steel reach.
Change the playing field, I'd promised myself. Maybe that meant maps no guild controlled—depths whose guardians were stone golems and ancient code, not bullies in paid armor.
Fire popped, showering sparks. I lifted ingot into glow until gold winked like sunrise on Perth's Swan River. Far away, debts, family, tired apartment waited. But here, in the belly of an impossible sphere, destiny hammered itself under my nervous hands.
Ironclad wanted a miner war? Let them dig their own graves.
Tomorrow, I would start drafting a new path—beneath guild radars, beyond charted slate, toward legends only risk dared to reach.
Because walls were finished, but horizons were calling—and I still had stone sinews in my veins.
Chapter 14: Bounty on the Gnome — "Price on My Head"
Ice-needles of dawn rattled the bunkhouse shutters when the capsule finished syncing and spat me into Endless Worlds. For half a heartbeat I braced for the clang of Ironclad steel—muscle memory from yesterday's fight—but the only sound was the distant hiss of coal fires reigniting under Flintspar's forges. Sleep had been a joke: three hours IRL, two of those spent staring at the ceiling while the bounty notice replayed in my head like a glitching reel. There was a price on my pixels now, and everyone knew it.
Lv 11 Gnome Artificer XP 5 890 / 7 500
HP 510/510 Stamina 370/380
STR 16 AGI 15 CON 18 INT 15 WIS 13 PER 23 LUK 11
Skills Mining 43.5 Surveying 36.3 Blacksmithing 8.1 One-Handed 6.8
Titles Skilled Laborer | Journeyman Miner | Bastion-Builder
Perks Ore Sense (cd 50 s) Stone Sense (active) Endurance Miner
Currency 22 g 29 s 08 c
Reputation City Builders – Trusted (268 / 300) │ Ironclad Guild – Hated
Status Bounty: 1 g per kill (scales)
Debuff Cursed Handsomeness –1 (masked)
Twenty-two gold—record high—but the number had all the warmth of a snake coiled in my purse. Any murderer with a pickaxe could turn me into rent money now. I cinched the suede mask tighter, tied my cloak high, and slipped into Flintspar's main street with the gait of a man pretending not to bleed.
The air smelled wrong. Victory smoke and cinnamon had vanished, replaced by something sour: fear sweat overlaid on old chimney soot. Posters fluttered on every lamppost—rough parchment stamped with a crimson hammer. At the center, a sketch of a wide-eyed gnome in a miner's cap, features exaggerated like a carnival caricature.
WANTED: "Orefinder"
Crimes: Market sabotage, tunnel terrorism, murder of guild officers
Reward: 1 g (scales) paid by Ironclad Mining Co.
They'd even drawn the cursed cheekbones for good measure.
I ducked my head and kept walking. Snow squeaked under heel-spikes; every squeak sounded like boots behind me. The street vendors opened shutters slower today, eyes scanning alleys before lighting their burners. Bounty fever was bad for business.
Mara's tavern door was ajar—steam, onion, and security in one package. I stepped inside and found Rowan already at the back booth, cloak shedding powdery snow. His quiver was heavier than usual, arrow fletchings peeking like hedgehog spines. A half-eaten meat pie cooled between his elbows.
"Two dawns ago they waved at us," he muttered as I slid in. "Now they cross the street. You see the cart-driver who spat near your shadow?"
I shook my head. "Tuned it out." My pulse disagreed; it hammered like Thalos's stamp.
"Union channels blew up," he went on. "Half the grinders are getting whispers from bounty hunters asking for your route schedule. Hedrum offered to guard you personally—said dwarf honor doesn't price by the head."
"Tell him thanks. But I can't drag the whole union into my mess."
Rowan snorted. "We're already in it, prijatel'. The moment Ironclad lost that core slot, they needed a scapegoat."
"Then I'll go invisible." I tore a bite of pie; pepper stung my mouth. "Solo tunnels. No market sales for a while."
"Lay low?" Rowan raised a brow. "When has that ever paid bills?"
The pie turned to cardboard on my tongue. Bills. Luca's balance stood at three-five. Half of last raid's aurisite was still unsold. Laying low meant bleeding credit until the sharks smelled blood again.
Rowan must have read the math in my eyes. He slid a folded parchment across the table. "Old Gus sent that before dawn."
I opened it: neat dwarven runes spelling one sentence.
Strangers asking after a handsome gnome. Hide your shine, lad. – Gus
A bitter laugh escaped me. "Even NPCs know the price of my skull."
Rowan leaned in. "There's more. A System admin avatar showed up in town square last night—blue cloak, no nameplate. Asked Lidia for trade logs on silver sales. People say it's because Ironclad filed a cheating report."
My stomach dropped. "Ore Sense pings leave no trace," I whispered, though I wasn't sure.
"Unless the bug flips debug flags we can't see." He tapped the table. "They called you a hacker on the forums. That's how they justify the bounty."
"Da, of course," I muttered. "If skill beats monopoly, accuse skill of cheating."
We sat in silence, tavern chatter a dull hum. I scrolled message screens: twenty-seven unread "offers" to let bounty hunters kill me quick for a split. One suggested I suicide on his blade "for the children." I deleted them all.
System pinged soft:
Daily Quest Available: Deliver 80 Iron Ingots to Flintspar Smeltery – Bonus 15 s
Eighty ingots—the sort of grunt task I could fill in an hour pre-bounty. Now it might be a death sentence. Yet fifteen silver still fed real mouths.
Rowan eyed the floating window. "You're thinking about it."
"Stupid, I know."
"Not stupid—necessary. But do it smart." He mapped finger across table grain like drawing a route. "Skip the western shafts. Ironclad owns those. Try Stonetalon's abandoned drift. No one likes the sulfur pools."
"Sulfur pools corrode pick heads."
"I'll loan you my old moon-steel spike. Double durability."
I exhaled. "Guard?"
"Class starts in two hours. But Kelly's available. And Neris if you promise hazard pay."
Hazard pay—words that meant silver I didn't have. Still, dying cost more.
"Fine," I said. "Tell them meet at east gate in twenty."
Rowan slapped table once. "Then let's earn breakfast."
***
Stonetalon Drift lay off the main valley, a scar carved by an earthquake patch two years back. The entrance gaped like a wolf maw, stale breath reeking of brimstone. Snow didn't venture inside; instead, yellow fog coiled along the floor, thin as cigarette smoke but twice as mean. Kelly claimed the fumes tasted like rotten eggs. Neris joked it was Ironclad's perfume.
I placed Gus's cartographer cube on basalt and blinked open the seismic overlay. Blue lines jittered; the device hated sulfur. Manual it was. I switched to Stone Sense, sending a low-thrum pulse through my boots. The HUD painted fractures in dull green; ore sparkled faint gold further down.
"Node sixty meters ahead," I whispered. "Iron, maybe hematite."
Kelly hefted his twin sledges. "No sulfur skin can stop good steel."
Neris rolled her shoulders. "Eyes up. Bounty posters might lure opportunists here."
The cave swallowed our torchlight. Drips echoed. UI logged a timer: Sulfur Exposure 00:00 / 30:00—half an hour safe without a respirator. Mine read 28 minutes after we set first foot inside.
At the first fork, I toggled Ore Sense—just a two-second flare. Veins lit like constellation threads: iron to the right, nickel left, a stray shimmer of silver deeper still. Cooldown reset. No system warnings; good.
We set picks to iron seam. Sparks flickered greenish. Kelly's swings rattled like artillery; chunks dropped fast. UI scrolled:
[Mining +0.1]
[Precision Strike! +2 Iron Ore]
Ten minutes passed; sled bags filled. Exposure timer ticked 17 minutes. Sweat trickled under mask; sulfur stung eyes. We needed air soon.
Then footfalls—hard soles on basalt, echoing wrong. I stilled pick mid-swing.
Neris hissed, "Company."
Torch shadows stretched; two avatars rounded the bend in red-framed breastplates. Not Ironclad colors—these plates bore a gilded skull symbol: bounty hunters.
Lead one raised hand, palm empty. "No quarrel," he called. "We're here for the bounty, gnome. Make it easy, we'll share resale on your loot."
Kelly stepped between, sledge over shoulder. "Gnome's under union protection."
Second hunter laughed. "Five gold to whoever logs the kill, union badge or not."
Five? Ironclad must have boosted price overnight.
Heart hammered. Fight here meant drowned lungs if we stayed too long; retreat meant dropped ore and wasted time.
Risk math flashed. Exposure timer 15 minutes. Ore load 250 kg. Passage narrow—collapsible.
I slipped a dynamite stub from belt. Whispered, "Back-up plan Delta."
Kelly's grin showed broken molar; he understood.
I shouted, "Take another step and this tunnel closes."
Lead hunter sneered. "You'd trash your own ore?"
"Better rubble than ransom."
He advanced. I lit fuse, tossed stick behind them—bounce, spark spitting. Hunters looked back just as Kelly shoulder-checked them forward—away from tunnel mouth, toward deeper cave.
BOOM.
Ceiling cracked. Boulders thundered, sealing path between us and exit.
≪Controlled Collapse: Segment D-12≫
Stability −45 %, Passage sealed 60 m
Dust storm choked the sulfur, cutting visibility to arm's length. My HUD shrieked Airborne Particulate + 35 %. Timer hit 13 min.
Neris coughed, "Secondary exit?"
"Left fork to nickel seam," I rasped. "Vent shaft beyond."
We hauled sled behind us, iron clanking. Hunters shouted on far side, muffled by debris.
Fork left, narrow chute. Timer 11 min. Fog thickened. Ore Sense unhelpful; everything glowed faint under sulfur interference.
Sudden splash—Neris stepped into hip-deep pool, cursed as acid hissed on greaves. HP bar dipped 20. Kelly yanked her free; I smeared neutralizing herb paste over the burn from my kit—stole precious seconds.
Timer 8 min.
Vent shaft finally: a jagged crack angling steep upward, cold air drafting. Too tight for the loaded sled.
"Leave ore," Neris wheezed.
"Not yet." I unhooked rope, lashed bags into cocoon pack. Weight screamed across shoulders—carry capacity warning flashed orange.
Kelly boosted me; I climbed, boots scraping. Timer 6 min. Lungs burned; mask filters clogged.
A final heave and I popped into open forest at ridge side, snow shocking hot skin. I collapsed to knees, coughing yellow phlegm. Kelly hauled Neris up next, then bags. Timer flicked to 0 s and vanished.
Cold wind tasted like mercy.
Neris inspected her greaves—scarred but serviceable. "Those bounty fools?"
"Still digging," Kelly said, ear to vent.
I set bags down; iron weight dented snow. "We bail to town or stash?"
"Town risky," Neris said. "Posters everywhere."
An idea: "Old Gus's out-knot shack. He keeps spare furnaces. We smelt tonight, sell as bars. Bars less traceable than ore."
They agreed. We stowed the bags under spruce boughs and slogged west toward Gus's marker, keeping eyes peeled.
Mission done, but pulse refused calm. This was morning. How many ambushes until night?
***
Gus's workshop squatted against a cliff, half wood, half rust-scarred steel. Smoke spiraled from a ramshackle chimney; Gus himself stood outside, snow in his beard. He looked me over like assessing ore purity.
"You're wearing trouble like a second cloak," he grunted.
"Comes with the bounty."
He beckoned inside. "Forge is hot. Bring your ghosts and your metal."
Inside, heat blasted away chill. We unloaded iron into crucibles, muscles aching. Gus tapped one ingot, whistled. "Good grade."
"Worth dying for, apparently," Neris quipped, tugging off burned greave.
Gus snorted. "Fools chase coin. Real miners chase stability." He eyed me. "Speaking of, strangers yesterday. Flash guild badges I didn't like. Asked if a gnome passed along ridge with suspicious sacks."
"Your answer?" I asked.
He puffed chest. "Told 'em I only serve honest ore, not gossip." Then softer, "But watch your shadow. Dungrim Ironheart issued kill-on-sight across three valleys."
The name hit like falling stone. "Ironheart himself?"
"Da. Pride cracked." Gus handed me a hammer. "Fix your pick. Work steadies nerves."
I set to shaping a new edge, rhythmic clang soothing. Sparks flew like ember fireflies. Between blows, Gus spoke low Russian: "System admins sniffing. Rumor says dev console flagged resource anomalies around you."
Cold sweat, forge heat notwithstanding. "Any official notice?"
"Not yet. But hide perk prints. Scale use."
I gripped hammer harder. "The perk saved lives. Without it we'd be corpses under Slatewater."
"Tools save lives," Gus agreed. "Overuse dulls them—and attention blinds you."
We worked until sundown. Ingots cooled dull gray; 260 bars stacked neat. Market price: twenty silver per bar—five gold total. I could almost hear Luca's debt howling smaller.
≪Smelting Batch Complete – Iron Bar (Q:B) × 260≫
Smelting 8.1 → 8.4
XP + 460
Rowan arrived near dark, bow slung, breathing hard. "Town's worse," he reported. "Bounty doubled to two gold. Ironclad posted screenshots of you collapsing tunnels—called it griefing."
Kelly spat. "They started the fight."
"Doesn't matter." Rowan unrolled parchment. Headlines: "Gnome Exploits Bug to Crash Economy—Ironclad Offers Reward."
I scanned text; my heart thrummed angry. They'd doctored images—showing UI windows of me supposedly injecting debug commands. Obvious fake for anyone with half a brain, but rumor outran truth.
Rowan offered a small canvas pouch. "Change of face."
Inside lay an alchemy-tinted mask, leather dyed midnight, runes etched to scramble visual recognition algorithms. Equipping would reduce bounty target lock range by 50 %.
"Expensive," I murmured.
"A union gift." He met my eyes. "We protect our own."
Throat closed; I just nodded and fastened the mask, suede replaced by obsidian sheen. UI blinked:
Item Equipped: Shadow Veil (Rare)
– Bounty Hunter Lock-On Range −50 %
– NPC Suspicion +5 % (unfamiliar visage)
Better.
We loaded iron bars onto a sled; Rowan and Kelly volunteered night watch while I slept four hours in Gus's loft. Dreams fractured into sulfur chokes and bounty crosshairs.
***
Next dawn we skirted logging trails, avoiding main road. The mask performed: two hunter patrols passed within twenty paces, eyes sliding off like water on oil. Still, my pulse sprinted the whole hike.
At Flintspar's north gate, guards stopped us—a new protocol. Their captain, a stern dwarf named Helvia, held up a poster. "Seen this gnome?"
The mask forced me to lie through my eyebrows. "Looks taller than me," I said, voice muffled.
Rowan coughed a laugh. Helvia shrugged and waved us in.
Inside, the market buzzed with hushed gossip. Two bounty hunters argued over kill credit; one brandished a cracked sword, claiming Ironclad hadn't paid. Merchant stalls sported new signage: NO PK BUSINESS.
We split the bars across three vendors to avoid volume flags. Prices had dipped—Ironclad dumped ore to tank market—yet we still netted 4 g 30 s after fees. Not terrible.
I funneled two gold into OrbCoin queue, heart drumming. ETA three hours.
Then Clerk Lidia gestured me into her booth. Behind privacy glass, she whispered, "System admin left this."
She slid a data crystal. I slotted it; a message played—holographic text only:
Developer Notice # C-19:
An anomalous resource-detection pattern has been linked to your session logs.
Please cease usage pending investigation.
Blood drained from face. Rowan read over shoulder, cursed soft. "They think you cheat."
"Worse—they've got log traces." I ejected crystal. "I never toggled anything outside skill UI."
"Perk might broadcast weird packets." He glanced around. "Could be Ironclad fed fake logs to devs."
I shook. "If devs rollback my account, Luca's repayment vanishes."
"Then we clear your name." Rowan's eyes hardened. "Prove Ironclad doctored data."
"How?"
He exhaled. "Find a dev who cares about truth? Or show the System you play fair—limit Ore Sense, rely on official Surveying."
My jaw ached. "That halves efficiency. Debt clock keeps ticking."
"Alive and poor beats banned and broke."
I inhaled forge-tinged air, steadying heartbeat. "Da. We scale back."
We left the booth. Outside, a jeering voice: "Mask won't hide you long, gnome." An orc player leaning on a halberd, bounty hunter tag glinting. I ignored him, but tension followed like static.
***
Two tense days passed. I mined only shallow veins by torchlight, strict 55-second Ore Sense intervals, never full bursts. Gold trickled slower; so did XP.
Forum chatter starred my name hourly. Some called me hero of blue-collar resistance. Others damned me as exploiter. Ironclad orchestrated smear threads, citing "dev warning." Fear seeped under skin.
On third evening, the loan shark's representative—Marco—texted IRL: Balance stands at 3 000 AUD. Payable two weeks. No excuses.
Two weeks. Lower than last threat, but still mountain high with slowed income.
I lay in the capsule, mask off, staring at apartment ceiling. Anna's gentle snore filtered from the next room. My hands trembled. The game, once my lifeline, now vice-gripped my throat.
Something had to change.
I logged back in, summoned Gus and Rowan to bunkhouse table littered with ore charts.
"I can't keep skimming surface nodes," I began. "Ironclad's bounty shrinks profit, devs trace logs. So I go where neither reaches."
Rowan's eyes widened. "You mean the hollow beyond East Rift? Twilight Hollow is level 40 content."
"Not Twilight," I said slowly. "Deeper. The maps show uncharted vacuum pockets under the magma vents—No guild flag, no system pathing yet. Legend says mythril veins cradle there."
Gus puffed pipe, beard smolder simmering. "Old dwarf tales call that place Heart-shiver. Rocks glow blue, air thin. Monsters older than patch zeros."
I met his gaze. "Monsters don't post bounties. Devs don't watch zones they forgot."
Rowan exhaled whistle. "It's suicide."
"Maybe. But one haul of mythril clears debt. Also clears Ironclad's leverage; they'll chase easier prey."
Gus grinned, teeth gold-tipped. "Stubborn gnome. You'll need gear—respirator helm, grade-C enchant pick, hazard potions. Costs coin."
"Half my purse plus whatever union credit I haven't burned," I said.
Rowan tapped table. "And backup. You won't solo Heart-shiver."
"Can't drag union into dev forgotten zone," I countered.
"Not union—just me," he said. "Class break in two days. Long weekend."
I swallowed. "You sure?"
He shrugged. "Professor won't fail me for fighting mythril guardians."
Gus snapped fingers. "You'll take my Mark II respirator—filters basalt dust. And a clockwork anchor to cross void crevasses."
I tried to thank him; words stuck. He waved dismissal. "Heroes pay debts. I invest in reliable returns."
Plan coalesced. We would spend next forty-eight hours prepping: recalibrating pick with moon-steel teeth, crafting climbing pitons, brewing Liora's new lung-purge elixir. Then slip out at lowest server population, vanish into the uncharted.
If we failed, my account might die under dev rollback anyway. But if we succeeded…
A System chime interrupted thoughts—private chat request.
User: Dungrim Ironheart
Message: "Enjoy your exile, gnome. Bounty rises daily until someone serves me your head."
I closed the window without responding. Funny thing about walls: when too many doors close, you learn to dig tunnels.
I picked up chisel, laid it against moon-steel pick tip, and hammered until sparks danced like tiny blue suns. Each flare whispered mythril possibilities, debts dissolving to ash, and a life beyond shadowed ledgers.
The ore veins of the Sphere still sang under my skin—unmapped, unmonopolized. And I was done playing on their surface.
Tomorrow, we'd descend into silence so deep even bounties couldn't echo.
And if the ancient stone itself wanted me dead, at least it would demand payment in honest sweat, not coin.
Chapter 15: High-Risk, High-Reward — "Blueprint for a Breakout"
A restless steel-gray dawn shivered over Flintspar when I jacked back into Endless Worlds. Even the snow seemed unwilling to settle, gusting in nervous spirals around the bunkhouse chimneys, as though the Sphere itself sensed I was about to pry somewhere it had forgotten. My HUD took half a heartbeat to stabilize.
Lv 14 Gnome Artificer XP 2 340 / 14 000
HP 640 / 640 Stamina 440 / 440
STR 18 AGI 16 CON 21 INT 16 WIS 14 PER 25 LUK 11
Mining 47.7 Surveying 39.1 Blacksmithing 10.2 One-Handed 9.0
Titles Skilled Laborer | Bastion-Builder | Corebreaker
Perks Ore Sense (cd 50 s) | Stone Sense | Endurance Miner
Status Bounty 2 g (scales) | Dev Notice C-19 (Usage flagged)
Currency 31 g 47 s 02 c
Debuff Cursed Handsomeness –1 (masked by Shadow Veil)
Three levels in a single week—pure mythril lightning in bottle form—but the numbers felt thin as paper against the stakes still staring me down: Luca's final principal, capsule rent, and the loan shark's last red deadline blinking two weeks out. The mythril expedition Rowan and I survived had paid the interest again, sure, yet even thirty-one gold wouldn't wipe the slate clean. Worse, each coin now lit Dungrim's bounty board brighter.
Time to raise the ceiling—or drill right through it.
I rolled my shoulders, joints cracking like thin ice, and padded toward Gus's forge loft. The dwarf's hammer already rang inside, sparks birthing dawn ahead of the sun. I pounded the door twice.
"Come in, you restless vein-badger."
Heat slapped my cheeks; the smell of coke and citrus-oil flux felt like home. Gus stood over an anvil no bigger than my torso, setting bevels on a respirator's bronze filter plates. When he looked up, molten reflections flickered in beard crystals.
"You haven't slept," he said.
"Sleep's a luxury until debt's a memory," I answered, voice hoarse.
He grunted approval. "Then let's speak of big risks."
I unrolled three vellum maps on the workbench—one official survey of the Scar-Ridge sub-strata, one union-scribbled scrap marked with old mythril rumors, and one I'd drawn from memory after the Guardian fight: twisty, incomplete, but pulsing with possibility. At their nexus glowed a starred circle labeled Ω Pocket.
Gus whistled low. "You sure that shaft exists?"
"Ore Sense showed a plume under the magma vents. Strongest ping I've ever felt—brighter than the Guardian's nest. But no system waypoint, no dungeon tag. Probably dev sandbox that never made patch notes."
"Or a trash can full of lethal bugs." Gus stroked beard. "Yet if it is mythril—"
"It's enough to nuke my debt, retire half the union, and buy you a new set of teeth," I cut in. "But the place sits past vacuum chambers the map calls Heart-shiver. Air pressure drops, gravity tilts sideways. We'll need special kit."
Gus slid the respirator helm forward. Filtration fins glinted. "Mark II. Two hours of breathable pressure at minus-eight atmospheres, reinforced seals, rune-cooled. You crack the visor, you implode—clean, at least."
I accepted the helm with careful fingers. Weighty, but manageable.
"Anything for blast-pockets?" I asked.
"Clockwork anchor with four grapple bolts," he said, laying out a brass cylinder. "And this." He opened a felt-lined box: six crystalline ampoules full of midnight liquid. "Liora's Void-Step tonic. Ten seconds of reduced mass—lets you hop across chasms that normally require wings. Side effect: nausea bad enough to make grown bears cry."
Fair trade.
He leaned in, voice dropping. "You know dev notice C-19 still flags your account. One wrong anomaly spike down there, they might hard-boot you mid-cave."
I met his eyes. "Then I mine fast and quiet. Ore Sense in pulses, no overloads."
Gus huffed, half-prayer, half-curse. "And allies?"
"Rowan's in," I said. "But this time I want Hedrum too for structural calls. And Liora; can't beat oncoming hypoxia without her potions."
"Three players plus a dwarf NPC mentor." Gus smirked. "Sounds like a dungeon party." Then his tone hardened. "Tell them exact risk. Union bonds break over hidden truths."
"Already drafted a full disclosure doc." I tapped parchment.
He slapped my shoulder with forge-rough palm. "Then go sell insanity to them. I'll finish calibrations by dusk."
I headed for the mess hall.
* * *
Rowan looked half-awake, a quill in one hand, ledger in the other—calculating arrow SHAFT costs by torchlight. Hedrum and Liora sat opposite, steaming bowls of porridge untouched as they argued over rune ratios in stamina draughts.
I dropped the maps between mugs. "I need three warm bodies to follow me into a hole no map owns. Payoff: enough mythril to break the Sphere, hazard rating: suicidal with a chance of historical."
Silence.
Rowan was first to breathe. "Tell."
I sketched the plan fast: route under the magma vents, vacuum corridors, one way in, maybe zero out. Need for respirators, anchor guns, rotating watch. Mythril node possibly the size of a barn. Bounty hunters unlikely—zone unmapped—but system glitches probable. Added disclaimers.
Hedrum's beard rustled like shaken chainmail. "Vacuum tunnels collapse if you sneeze wrong."
"That's why you monitor crevices," I replied. "Your Stone Sense outranks mine on stability calls."
Liora twirled a vial, eyes distant. "Airless chambers mean potions behave weird. My tonic bubbles might explode."
"Then we treat them like grenades," Rowan offered, thin smile.
I showed them the Developer Notice overlay. "If the dev console traces anomalies, they might lock my connection. Should that happen, you abort."
Rowan's fist met table. "We drag your pixel corpse out if we have to."
Hedrum considered. "Payment split?"
"Equal fifths," I said. "Gus gets a share for gear. After exchange rates, each of us still clears ten grand real."
Liora whistled. "I can fund my pharmaco-lab for a year."
Hedrum nodded. "Fine. But ground rules: no perk overdrive unless collapse imminent."
"Agreed," I said, feeling weight shift from shoulders onto team.
System chimed—a party contract window.
Proposed Expedition: Heart-shiver Mythril Run
Members: Orefinder, RowanAsh, Hedrum Rockbarrel, Liora Vervain
Objective: Extract ≥ 120 units Mythril Ore
Failure Condition: Party wipe or dev intervention
Reward Share: 20 % each after Gus cut
Accept / Decline
Four checkmarks blinked green.
Rowan raised his mug. "Za dorogu." To the road.
I clinked mugs, though dread tasted stronger than cinnamon.
* * *
Pre-expedition prep swallowed two in-game days. We tested the Mark II respirators in a sealed ice cellar: gauges held at negative eight for thirty minutes. I upgraded my pick at Gus's lathe—moon-steel teeth swapped for titanite edges that kept hardness at vacuum chill. Rowans's bow limbs got rune-etched with thermal shunts to prevent fracturing. Liora brewed six Lung-Bite inhalers—ampoules you crack inside the mask for emergency oxygen spikes.
We ran combat drills in Quarry-Five's abandoned chute. Rowan fired arrows while Hedrum and I practiced anchor swapping: shoot bolt into boulder, clip rappel line, traverse, retrieve, pivot. Each drill shaved seconds; time matters when you hang over abyss.
UI fed incremental gains:
One-Handed 9.0 → 9.4
Anchor Handling 0.0 → 2.1 (Novice)
Night before departure I logged out for IRL logistics. The apartment smelt of burnt ramen—Mitya's attempt at independence. Anna sat cross-legged on couch, homework scattered. She glanced up, eyes underlined by worry.
"Another marathon session?" she asked.
"One more," I said. "Then maybe we can pay the landlord a year ahead."
She didn't smile. "Just come back breathing."
I forced a grin and ruffled Mitya's hair. "Build anything cool?" Lego mountains mushroomed on the rug.
"A secret base with a lava moat," he said proudly. "Enemies fall in and burn up."
I froze—life imitating game. "Smart defense," I murmured.
I set emergency numbers on fridge, loaded laundry, kissed their foreheads. Then back into the capsule.
* * *
Launch hour: 03:12 server time—low population. Flintspar slept under aurora arcs, guild banners drooping. We met at east ridge, five kilometers from the bounty boards.
Gear check: masks sealed, packs under weight threshold, anchor guns loaded, tonic vials strapped.
Hedrum spat in snow. "Last chance for tavern instead."
Rowan snorted. "Wine tastes better after improbable survival."
Down we went.
The fissure mouth resembled a lightning crack frozen in basalt, wide enough for a cart if you folded it like paper. At five meters depth, torches snuffed; vacuum leaked, pulling heat. We donned respirators—HUD overlay changed: blue oxygen bar, amber pressure gauge.
Atmospheric Pressure: 0.13 atm
O₂ Level: Stable (98 min)
We switched to rune-lamps—cold phosphor glow painting walls. Rock turned from gray to onyx, streaked by metallic veins thin as hair. Every footstep pinged my Stone Sense: marble-smooth, zero microfractures—nature's pressure vessel.
After twenty minutes we reached a cavern shaped like a crooked hourglass, bottom half flooded by shimmering ice. Gravity here misbehaved; pebbles thrown drifted sideways before landing. Liora squeaked delight, bounding like a cat.
Rowan joked, "Cheats enabled." Then serious: "Anchor across?"
I nodded. He fired bolt into opposite ledge. Rope taut, we zipped over void. Halfway, my mind warped—the world rotated and suddenly my feet aimed at wall, not floor. I landed on all fours on what had been ceiling seconds prior.
HUD tagged: Vector Shift Anomaly — Gravity Axis rotated 90°.
Hedrum cursed dwarven poetry. "Stone shouldn't lie."
"It's not stone lying," I said. "Sphere's maintenance field bent here."
We recalibrated orientation markers and progressed.
Checkpoint after checkpoint we descended: crystal forests raked by no wind, skeletons of ancient miners fused to walls—gear predating current game era. UI occasionally spat relic inspection prompts but we ignored for time.
Two hours in, Ore Sense pulsed unbidden—glow bleeding under the basalt like sunrise. Mythril veins spidered ahead, thick and alive. Cooldown timer jittered 49 s then 120 s, unstable.
"Close," I whispered, voice tinny in mask.
Tunnel forked into a coliseum-sized chamber. Air—if you could call it that—rippled blue. At center, a stalagmite of pure mythril pierced the roof, twenty meters tall, fractal facets catching rune-light.
Rowan exhaled a curse that fogged his visor. Hedrum simply bowed.
But between us and fortune crouched a mechanism: three concentric rings of hovering stone plates, rotating lazily around the spire, each etched with runes. In their midst floated a sphere of translucent amber—inside slept a humanoid figure clad in cracked obsidian armor.
I scanned.
≪Entity Detected: Core Warden (Dormant)≫
Level ??? Status: Stasis Trigger: Resource Extraction ≥ 0.5 %
Hedrum grunted. "Touch the ore, wake the devil."
Liora's eyes shone. "Maybe we mine just 0.4 %?"
Rowan laughed softly. "I don't trust rounding errors."
Plan time.
"We split tasks," I said. "Rowan and Liora plant distraction charges on northern ring supports. Hedrum and I cut sample cores manually to test trigger edge. If Warden stirs, we switch to Phase B: anchor pull on ring plates, drop them like guillotine to cage it."
Hedrum cracked knuckles. "I like cages."
We crept in silence. My pick scraped a first chip—shick—sound lost in vacuum. UI flashed Mythril Ore +1 (0.003 %). Warden's amber shell remained still. Good.
Second chip. +1 (0.006 %). Still dormant.
Hedrum tapped gauge. "Edge maybe one percent."
We sank into rhythm. Chips accumulated, bars filled half pack. I felt greed gnaw; we could leave now with debt-killing load. But heads hungered for certainty: a single pack each would secure families and future.
Rowan radioed: "Charges set."
I nodded, eyes on counter: 0.47 %.
Next swing—thin seam cracked; bigger chunk flaked off, weighty. Gauge slid to 0.51 %.
Amber sphere glowed crimson.
"Oh, pozhaluysta," I muttered.
Plates snapped outward; the figure melted free, limbs unfurling like a mantis made of night. No HUD level; instead a skull icon.
Liora smashed detonator. Explosives tore northern plates, shards spinning. Warden shrieked—soundless in vacuum but I felt vibration through soles.
Rowan loosed arrow after arrow—sparks bounced useless. Hedrum slung his hammer but the thing phased.
Ore Sense overloaded—veins, entity, allies all blazed, vision white. I screamed, toggling ability off—cooldown soared to 600 s; dev console likely saw.
Warden darted, carving energy scythes. Liora's shoulder plate vaporized; HP plummeted 60. She applied flask but liquid boiled off mask interior—panic.
"Cage now!" Hedrum roared. He fired anchor bolt into top ring pivot. I mirrored. Winch reels screamed; plates crashed, forming jagged dome around Warden. It rammed bars; sparks but cage held.
"Seam B!" I yelled. Rowan flung a void-step vial into cage gap. Impact birthed a micro-implosion—Warden convulsed, limbs disassembling. Hedrum hammered dome edge, unleashing rockslide onto imprisoned core.
UI pinged delayed:
≪Entity Contained≫
Stasis 00:10—00:09…
Ten seconds.
We sprinted, bags heavy. At threshold, chamber quaked; behind, dome erupted, shards chasing like shrapnel comets. Anchor route reversed; we zip-lined across gravity seam from earlier. Mid-flight, Warden's energy bolt sliced rope behind Rowan—he tumbled into negative-G zone.
I pivoted midair, snatching his wrist. Weightless; vector shift churned guts. I smashed void-step ampoule, momentum jerked us onto ledge safe side. Timer for ampoule ended; nausea hammered brain but we lived.
System broadcast:
World Event Triggered: Heart-shiver Disturbance
Local Stability −20 %
We ran before whole cave inverted.
Retreat path blurred: through crystal forests, across sideways ice, up fissure. Oxygen bars dwindled 15 %, alarms beeped. At last, positive air pressure hissed into masks; we yanked them off, sucking sulfur-laced but breathable breeze.
Snow greeted us like blessing. Sun just cresting rim, painting Frostpeak lavender.
We collapsed.
Rowan lay back, snow haloing head. "Worth every ulcer."
I laughed, half sob, half victory. Liora punched my arm. "Next time we vacation instead."
Hedrum unloaded packs: forty-six units mythril each. More than double target.
System scroll:
≪Expedition Success≫
Mythril Ore 184
Skill Mining +1.1
XP + 3 600
Ore Sense still on cooldown.
I looked north—Flintspar smoke rising. With bounty still active, we needed covert sale. Kestrel Outpost again, or black-market route?
Rowan read my thoughts. "We ghost straight to Gus. Smelt first, questions later."
I nodded.
* * *
Gus nearly swallowed pipe when mythril slammed his bench. He ran shaky fingers over lodes. "By the deep makers…"
"Tell me we can refine this quietly," I said.
He grinned toothy. "Not quietly, but safely. I'll run night smelts, stagger pours. By week's end, you'll own your freedom."
He turned somber. "But devs pinged me while you were gone—asked about your Ore Sense uptick. They sniff anomaly."
Heart thunked. "How much time?"
"Hard to say." Gus handed me a small copper token etched with union seal. "This buys official testimony that you're a model worker. Might delay hammer."
Rowan clasped my shoulder. "And if devs still swing, we appeal. Community stands with you."
Liora raised vial. "And I brew coffee strong enough to keep moderators awake through reading logs."
Hedrum only nodded, but the nod carried bedrock.
I exhaled. "Tonight I pay Luca's final principal. Tomorrow—maybe we fight devs. But for a few hours, we breathe."
We clinked mugs of molten chocolate Gus brewed from imported beans. Outside, Flintspar's anvil chorus resumed, oblivious to the treasure hiding under its eaves.
* * *
Several hours later, OrbCoin queue flashed green: Deposit confirmed: 12 0 0 g → ≈ 24 000 AUD. I stared until numbers blurred.
I logged out. Capsule lid hissed; apartment dawn filtered dull. Phone buzzed—Marco's number. I answered, voice calm.
"Payment processed," I said. "Check the account."
Silence, then grudging respect. "You're clear. Our ledger ends here."
I ended call, slid to kitchen floor, and let lungs empty. Debt chains melted like snow on hot iron. Anna peeked round door, worry lines folding to joy when she saw tears.
"It's done?" she whispered.
"Da," I said, voice cracked. "No more knives at our door."
She hugged me so tight ribs squeaked.
* * *
Back in Endless Worlds that night, a private system mail awaited:
DevOps Bot #73
Resource anomaly from session ID #Ω-289 now under review.
Please report to Admin Hub for diagnostics. Non-compliance may result in suspension.
I swallowed. Victory never comes tax-free.
But I wasn't alone now—a union behind me, allies at my side, and enough mythril left to fund any appeal.
I toggled Shadow Veil off, letting cursed cheekbones gleam in forge light. Miners paused, recognizing Corebreaker.
I lifted my pick to the cavern roof, feeling vein-songs hum back. Horizons still waited, deeper and stranger than any bounty board.
And for the first time since debt's shadow fell, I swung not because I must, but because stone and story asked me to.
The Sphere answered in echoes.
Chapter 16: Preparation Montage — "Whetstone, Wire, and Will"
The first thing I heard logging back in was the slow, three-beat hammer of Old Gus's forge, a sound that normally meant home. Tonight it felt like a stopwatch counting down to some cosmic punchline. I climbed from the bunkhouse capsule, rubbed the grit of a thirty-minute "nap" out of my eyes, and pulled up the HUD to be sure nothing catastrophic had slipped in while I was offline.
Lv 14 Gnome Artificer XP 2 340 / 14 000
HP 640 / 640 Stamina 440 / 440
STR 18 AGI 16 CON 21 INT 16 WIS 14 PER 25 LUK 11
Mining 47.7 Surveying 39.1 Blacksmithing 10.2 One-Handed 9.0
Titles Skilled Laborer | Bastion-Builder | Corebreaker
Perks Ore Sense (cd 50 s) | Stone Sense | Endurance Miner
Status Bounty 2 g (scaling) | Developer Flag C-19
Currency 31 g 47 s 02 c
Debuff Cursed Handsomeness –1 (masked by Shadow Veil)
Thirty-one gold left after the last batch of mythril sold, and my heart still insisted that translated to exactly one bad decision away from zero. The debt meter in my real wallet read almost clear, but the clock on the loan shark's extension ticked louder every time the VR rig's fans spun up. I reminded myself: one more monster haul and Luca's ledger would finally rinse clean. Then, maybe—just maybe—I could play this cursed game because I loved it, not because rent sized me up every morning.
Snow fell in sluggish spirals outside the forge, but sparks inside painted Gus's face sunrise orange. He glanced up as I entered, reading the exhaustion in my posture like strata marks.
"Still breathing, at least," he grunted, wiping slag from his tongs. "You ready to turn that breathing into efficiency?"
"Da," I said. "I've got two days before the deep run. Every hour counts."
"Then quit talking and start shaping."
He slid a bar of titanite across the anvil—duller than mythril, tougher than anything a surface ore could dream of. The goal was simple: re-tool every piece of kit for the vacuum tunnels under Heart-shiver. No rust, no micro-fractures, no excuses. The only variable I couldn't forge out was my own heartbeat.
While the bar glowed, I hammered a mental checklist:
Primary pick: replace moon-steel teeth with titanite edge, enchant for sub-zero brittleness resist.
Sidearm: refurbish the pawn-shop short sword Rowan found, grind chips, oil the fuller.
Gear repair: make sure ropes, pitons, dynamite fuses all function at –40 °C simulated.
Potions: convince Liora to brew lungs-of-iron tonics that wouldn't detonate under low pressure.
Combat drills: raise One-Handed to at least 9.5 so I didn't embarrass my ancestors.
IRL logistics: a neighbor to feed the kids, enough savings to keep the electric on if I flatlined in-pod.
Steel struck steel, each beat slamming the list deeper into muscle memory. Gus helped with the fine temper, his dwarf eyes measuring heat gradients by color alone. Twenty minutes later the new pick edge hissed in an oil bath and my nerves had adopted its rhythm: slow, relentless, necessary.
Rowan arrived just as I was tightening the last rivet. He looked like he'd sprinted the whole ridge—hair frozen into ginger needles, breath piping white through his scarf.
"Change of plan?" I asked, expecting bad news.
He grinned instead. "Professor canceled tomorrow's lecture—snowstorm IRL. That means I'm available for a full eighteen-hour grind."
Trust a grad student to celebrate miniature apocalypses. Still, more hours of backup coverage in Heart-shiver equaled higher survival probability.
"You still trust my pathfinding after last time?" I asked.
Rowan shrugged. "The rocks tried to kill us; the rocks failed. I'm not superstitious."
"Only because luck's a stat," I muttered.
We spent the next hour in Gus's backroom tailoring gear: Rowan waxed bowstrings with alchemic resin that stayed supple in a vacuum, while I riveted a new foot-spike harness to my boots—titanite spikes, hinge-locked to bite sideways when gravity flipped axes. Hedrum lumbered in halfway through, lugging a crate of ammonium dynamite and a grin big enough to house its own chimney.
"Brought extra loud words," the dwarf said, setting the crate down like a sacred offering. "If a tunnel mouths off, we'll persuade it."
His arrival nudged the party count to three; Liora would make four once potions cooled. A tidy squad—small enough to sneak, big enough to lift each other out of holes. Union regs approved.
Gus banged a wrench on a gear housing. "All right, children. Time to trial those respirators."
He gestured to four Mark II helmets lined like executioner hoods on a bench. Bronze-and-glass, rune-etched filters, adjustable seals for gnome to dwarf. They whispered expensive even before the price tag.
"Two-hour oxygen reservoirs," Gus said. "Minus-eight atm rated. Fail safe is simple: don't fail."
He guided us into his ice cellar—refrigerated to simulate low-pressure chill. We sealed visors and a chill hissed over my cheeks as the gauge spun to negative. HUD overlay popped: blue oxygen bar, amber pressure ticker.
Respirator Mark II: O₂ 99 min | Pressure Stable
Breathing felt like sipping air through a straw wrapped in peppermint ice, but vitals held. Across from me Rowan's thumbs-up looked slow, dreamlike. Hedrum tested a dwarf-sized yawn—visor fog bloomed then cleared by rune draught. After ten minutes Gus thumbed the fail-valve and we popped helmets in sequence, heads immediately steaming in cellar air.
"Pass," he declared.
I tried not to grin too wide; my jaw still ached from forging. "Next drill: anchor runs."
We relocated to Quarry-Five, abandoned since the wall contract. Hedrum strung a rope course across two busted support beams, representing one of Heart-shiver's sideways gravity shafts. Rowan fired an anchor bolt into a beam, its fins biting dead wood. I clipped and zipped the line, body swinging ninety degrees as my boots met the opposite beam where "down" tilted. The new foot spikes bit home; I unhooked, rotated, re-anchored. Hedrum followed, heavier but surer, dwarf center of mass apparently immune to vertigo.
Each successful traverse bumped the fledgling Anchor Handling skill:
Anchor Handling 2.1 → 2.8 (Novice)
Hours blurred. When we finally E-stopped for hydration, Liora trotted up, cheeks pink from the cold, satchels clinking.
"Brought enough nausea for everyone," she sang, unloading glass vials shiny as obsidian water.
"What's the delight today?" Rowan asked.
"Lung-Bite Mark IV," she said proudly. "Mint-lavender base, hydra bile catalyst. Ten-second mass reduction, plus O₂ spike." She winked. "Side effect: your sinuses will hate you."
I uncorked one, sniffed, regretted life. But in a vacuum chase, ten seconds of featherweight could be a bridge between two boulders.
We logged out briefly at noon for IRL tasks—Rowan to email his absent professor, Liora to turn a slow cooker off, Hedrum to "consult a barrel of ale," and me to scrounge fridge leftovers for my siblings. Anna eyed my drained face as she colored calculus problems.
"You know Mom used to say heroes sleep," she murmured.
"I'm not a hero; I'm a miner," I said, ruffling her hair. "Besides, sleep's for the rich."
She frowned but let it slide. Mitya showed me his latest LEGO contraption—a siege catapult. I told him he'd make a fine engineer. Then the capsule reclaimed me.
Back in Endless Worlds, sunset painted the forge stacks mauve. Gus had cleared space in the yard for combat drills. We sparred in pairs: Rowan's birch-limb bow versus my short sword. He clipped my sleeve thrice before I landed a single pommel strike. My One-Handed skill crawled forward:
One-Handed 9.0 → 9.2
Sweat pooled even in the cold; stamina warnings flickered. Liora doused us with bitter hydra-bile stamina draughts and we kept swinging until the world slowed to syrup.
By moonrise we collapsed around a brazier, snow sizzling on coals. Gus tossed each of us a crude tin badge etched with a crossed pick and anchor.
"Unofficial team sigil," he said. "No fancy lore. Just reminds you not to drop each other."
I pinned mine beside the Shadow Veil's neck clasp, feeling the added weight with cautious pride.
System pinged:
New Party Buff: Bonded Crew
— All members within 10 m gain Stamina Regen +5 %
Tiny bonus, but morale soared.
* * *
The last real danger before the expedition wasn't monsters or vacuum; it was bureaucracy. The developer notice—C-19 anomaly flag—still hovered in my messages like a dagger over a silk thread. The admins wanted me in their diagnostic hub for scans. If I ignored it too long, suspension would hit mid-dig, stranding the team.
I bit the bullet and marched to Flintspar's admin kiosk after midnight when the streets were empty. The kiosk looked like a confession booth welded to an ATM. I placed my palm on the rune pad; blue light washed up my arm.
Admin Diagnostic #C-19
Anomalous resource-detection pattern persists.
Submit voluntary telemetry? Y/N
Voluntary, my pick head.
I selected Y but ticked "aggregate only." The system whirred, politely blind to individual coordinates. With luck, that shunted them enough data to stat-smog their graphs for weeks.
When it spat a green checkmark, I exhaled rusty breath. Rowan messaged instantly:
RowanAsh: You alive?
Orefinder: No zap yet. Telemetry accepted.
RowanAsh: Then buy bread. Liora's potions kill taste buds.
I did, picking up sour rye loaves and herbed butter from Mara's night shift. Little luxuries keep miners breathing when the world compresses.
* * *
Dawn of departure day—steel-blue sky, snow hissing like static. Our packs weighed as much as small children. Oxygen gauges flashed full, dynamite nested between wool blankets to prevent concussion cracks. Rowan rolled shoulders; Hedrum tightened hammer straps; Liora hummed a tune from some old Kyiv lullaby.
We met at East-Ridge fissure, the same crack Rowan and I had first tested weeks before. This time the chasm felt like a gate into mythology.
I turned to the team. "One last confirmation: No one's forced. No shame walking back to the tavern."
Hedrum spat. "Tavern'll still be there. Mythril veins might not."
Liora winked. "And I brewed hangover cures. Worst case, we crawl out."
Rowan knocked an arrow, purely ceremonial. "Less speeches, more adventure."
We sealed respirators. World noise muted to heartbeat and the soft click of gauges.
I stepped over the rim.
Gravity swallowed us.
The rope paid out smooth, anchor bolts singing under tension. Rune lamps cast cones of frost-blue. Twenty meters down the fissure walls narrowed, then opened into the sideways gravity shaft we'd drilled earlier. My boots rotated, spikes biting; sense of down shifted like a rug. Behind me the others followed—four marionettes on invisible strings.
Ore Sense pulsed low power, mapping immediate strata—harmless silica, traces of iron; no hostile blips. Cooldown stable. Good.
We traversed a ledge barely wide enough for toenails. Frost crystals sprouted rainbow shards. Liora produced a chalk stick, marking arrows in case walls twisted memory. Every thirty steps Hedrum tapped stone with a brass tuning bar; the echo told him fracture density.
First hazard: a pit of silvery dust swirling though no air moved. HUD tagged Nanite Residue—Corrosive. Rowan fired an anchor across while I threw a Lung-Bite vial; its vapor displaced dust long enough for sprint jumps.
Second hazard: grav-null corridor where body inertia slid forward while feet floated. I triggered the mass-reduction tonic—ten seconds feather-time—and frog-hopped to a solid platform. Gut churned bile; sinuses screamed, but we lived.
An hour in we hit an observation arch—ancient alloy railings framing the Heart-shiver vacuum plain. A black lake of stillness stretched to horizons, studded with crystal spires glowing cobalt. The Dyson sun glitter-pointed above like a gemstone on velvet. Beauty haunted me; I nearly forgot Lanka's overdue rent notice taped above my real fridge.
We weren't first: eagle-keen eyes spotted dropped rope fibers on a distant boulder.
"Ironclad scouts?" Rowan whispered over comm.
"Maybe," I said. "But trails look days old. Could be dev bots."
Either way, caution dialed to max.
We labored another kilometre through ice tunnels. Stats rolled:
Stamina 440 / 440 → 280 / 440
Hydration 64 %
Ore Sense cooldown 32 s
Break time. We crouched behind a basalt fin, cracked helmets for a two-minute sip of thermos coffee spiked with Liora's endurance powder. It tasted like burnt mud but re-lit muscles.
When we resealed visors, the gauge glitched—my oxygen bar stuttered. Alarm flickered then cleared. I swallowed dread and forced calm.
"Mask hiccup?" Rowan asked.
"Software lag," I lied. Note to self: check for micro-cracks.
We pressed on.
* * *
Low grumble like a sleeping dragon greeted us two hours later. I killed the rune-lamp; we hugged tunnel wall. Ahead, crimson glow pulsed through vents.
Hedrum peeked and swore. "Lava moat, twenty meters across."
The tunnel opened on a sinkhole lake of semi-molten rock—a by-product of Dyson heat leaks. Plumes boiled upward, condensing as snow in zero air. Across the chasm a natural arch of obsidian beckoned: the only route deeper. But jets of flame burst irregularly from vents, licking the arch's underside.
"No gravity shift here," Rowan noted. "Anchor run possible but we cook if mistime."
We watched vent cycles—fifteen seconds dormancy, three-second eruption. Titanite rope would survive heat, but lungs? Visors rated for brief spikes; lungs wouldn't appreciate vacuum plus convection.
Plan formed quick:
Hedrum sets anchor bolt high on arch.
Rowan ziplines first, plants second anchor.
I follow, towing Liora on tandem rig—lower mass from tonic, halving traversal time.
Hedrum hammers across last, dwarf constitution as insurance.
Timer started. Rowan zipped, arrow-deployed anchor thunking. He landed, signaled green. I inhaled Lung-Bite, clipped Liora, and pushed. Weight fell away; we sailed across like two feathers in a hurricane, vents roaring beneath. Heat warnings flashed red; visor glass shimmered but held. Landed rolling; Liora's laughter barked in my ears.
Hedrum mis-timed by half a heartbeat; a vent burst below, flame tongue searing his left boot. HP dropped 80. He landed smoking. Liora slammed a frost salve on the scorch; steam hissed. Crisis contained.
> Hedrum HP 640 → 512
He winked despite pain. "Good to remind bones they live."
We scurried off arch before the Dyson Sphere changed its mind.
* * *
Hours later we reached the bivouac coordinates Gus and I had plotted—an abandoned maintenance alcove with sealed bulkheads. Oxygen had pooled from microscopic leaks, enough for a two-hour visor break. Hedrum collapsed first, foot throbbing. Liora mixed salve with powdered ice-bloom, accelerating tissue regrow. Rowan and I unpacked rations: dried elk jerky Gus swore was "almost meat," plus nut bread.
I finally dared open the status screen for the day tally:
Day -2 Expedition Prep Log
Mining +0.3 (Survey cores) 47.7 → 48.0
One-Handed +0.4 9.2 → 9.6
Anchor Handling +0.9 2.8 → 3.7
Stamina Max +10 440 → 450
HP Max +10 640 → 650
Incremental, but every scrap counted.
Rowan flicked a pebble at my boot. "Mind sharing your quiet math?"
"Just making sure my heart can keep up with your trouble," I said.
He smirked, then sobered. "You think devs will yank us mid-run?"
"Not if telemetry satisfied them," I answered, unsure.
A ping cut the air. Global chat announcement:
World Quest Notice: Ironclad Guild expedition sighted entering sector D-28 (Heart-shiver). Guild objective: resource acquisition.
My stomach iced.
"They're behind us," Liora whispered.
"Or beside," Hedrum said, foot flexing. "Vacuum distorts distance."
Rowan stood, stringing bow. "Then we stay unpredictable."
We voted silence. No campfire, minimal tools, staggered watch. When my shift rolled around, I perched on a ledge outside the alcove, visor open to the cold air—normal atmosphere here thanks to a break in vacuum seal. Above, the Dyson sun's faint arc glimmered through fissures, making star patterns glow like city lights inverted inside a bowl.
I thought of Anna's calculus, Mitya's catapult, and how close we were to freeing them from the specter of loan sharks forever. One haul of aurisite had tasted sweet; the mythril raid sweeter, but still the clock ticked. After this run, the debt would choke on dust. Then what? University reprise? Real geology? Or keep digging because the Sphere sang at frequencies no classroom matched?
The night whispered no answers, only the low hum of ancient machines turning behind the walls—heartbeats of a world bigger than any wallet.
* * *
We broke bivouac at artificial dawn and pushed deeper. Gravity rotated twice more; at one point Rowan walked on what looked like the side wall while I tramped the ceiling. Liora giggled like a child; Hedrum swore creatively, hammering crampons into stone.
At corridor Delta-seven we met our first confirmed sign of Ironclad: a snapped glowstick, their guild crest etched into plastic. Fresh. We killed our lamps, advanced on silent spikes.
Voices echoed—a squad ahead discussing vent cycles. Through a crack I saw five players in crimson-trimmed plate, scanning a laser range-finder at a granite barrier.
Hedrum mouthed, "Detour?"
Rowan disagreed: his arrow pointed at overhead slab bulging suspiciously.
I weighed options: fight? Risky. Bypass? Could allow them to flank later. A third idea surfaced—friendly sabotage. The corridor overhead seam looked fracture-ripe; a single shaped charge could drop a slab, sealing them temporarily without casualties.
I removed a small ammonium packet, set timer thirty seconds, wedged it in the crack. We retreated. Boom muffled under vacuum but rock roared inside our bones. Dust plumed. HUD ping:
Terrain Obstruction +30 %
Ironclad Squad D-28 route delayed ≈ 90 min.
We bolted before residual grid squares updated.
Minutes later a private whisper from an unknown player flashed:
?: You think rocks hide you, gnome?
The sender field blank—Ironclad using burner alts. I muted channel.
* * *
By midday our maps showed final checkpoint: the vac-crevasse Gus dubbed "Needle's Eye" because the pass narrowed to a crack just wide enough for dwarf shoulders. Beyond lay the descent shaft to the mythril hearth.
Needle's Eye, however, didn't get its name for free. Centuries of tectonic creep meant periodic contractions—stone lips closing every nine minutes for roughly thirty seconds, crushing anything inside.
We arrived as the seam stood half-open, jagged teeth dripping frost.
"Timing window five," Rowan calculated.
I ran the math: crossing length four meters, squad of four, with packs heavy. We'd need Lung-Bite mass drop plus a double anchor for redundancy.
Sequence: anchors pre-shot parallel lines, clinched to our belt rings; we sprint and pendulum while the seam yawns; if timing fails we press bodies into a recessed alcove mid-way, praying.
Heart hammered a war drum. I cued timer, counted.
"Three. Two. One. Go!"
Rowan sprinted first, anchor line slack hissing. I followed, Liora next, Hedrum last. Halfway I felt the world clench—stone ribs sliding. We flung ourselves into the alcove—barely shoulder-wide. Stone slammed shut against our packs, squealed. I couldn't breathe; pressure flattened chest. Visor warned: Structural Stress >85 %.
Thirty eternal seconds later the seam relented, jaws prying apart. We tumbled onto the farther ledge, hearts synching with seismic aftershocks.
Hedrum exhaled a laugh that coughed blood but smiled anyway. "Better than tavern brawls."
We pressed on.
* * *
The final shaft descended like an elevator missing its car—just air and darkness. Gus's anchor gun rattled as I drove bolts into mineral columns. Rope length readout scrolled past 200 m before my boots dangled free. Below, a faint lapis glow pulsed. Mythril heartbeat.
At 260 m, the shaft flared into a cavern too massive for lamps to map. Bioluminescent stalactites dripped pale light onto black glass floors. In the distance, ridges rose like dragon spines—pure mythril crust. But between us and fortune stood a lattice of crystal pylons humming with energy.
HUD tagged:
Ancient Crystal Array – Status: Semi-Active
Function: Pressure Stabilization / Security
Warning: Energy Discharge on Intrusion
"Eyes up," Rowan said. "Trip a pylon, you fry."
We skirted perimeter, sensors chirping whenever boots strayed too near. Liora dusted pylons with powder to reveal laser grids—smart girl. Progress felt snail slow but kept HP intact.
Halfway across Rowan gestured: footprints—Ironclad size twelve boots crossing less cautiously. Scorch marks nearby suggested one unlucky soul fried. Morbid comfort.
Finally we cleared the last pylon. A wall of raw mythril waited—veins thicker than my arm, shimmering like moonlight on water.
Ore Sense triggered impulsively; overlay blinded me with signal density. I throttled power to 1 %. Cooldown soared to 500 s but head remained intact. Node chart plotted: if we extracted even thirty percent, we'd net triple our last haul.
Hedrum hefted pick. "Edges?"
"Cut high veins first, leave pillars for stability," I said. "No Guardian ping yet, but we saw what happened at Corebreaker spire."
We fanned out. Titanite edges bit ore like soft butter. Each strike chimed. Backpack counters climbed:
Mythril Ore +1
Mythril Ore +1
Inventory Weight 73 %…
Time melted. Somewhere between swing seventy and eighty, Rowan's alarm chirped. He spun, arrow nocked. From a side tunnel, armored footsteps echoed—Ironclad reinforcements, four visible, likely more behind.
They spotted us—battle shouts bounced vacuum-dampened but clear.
"Take what you can and run?" Rowan asked.
"No," I said, surprising myself. "We hold five minutes, fill to brim, then collapse vent shaft behind."
Hedrum roared approval, hammer whirling. Liora uncorked ampoule bombs—blue mist swirling.
The fight came like a blizzard. Arrows and spell bolts sparked against crystal pylons, ricocheting chaotic. I dodged a flaming javelin, countered with a pick swing to kneecap an advancing warrior. Numbers sprayed: –210 HP. My HP dropped 80 from a glancing mace.
Liora's ampoule burst near their mage—mass reduction plus upward vent draft flung him into ceiling stalactite; he despawned screaming.
Rowan's multi-shot pinned two archers together. Hedrum slammed hammer to ground; shockwave cracked floor, sending shards into greaves.
But Ironclad kept spawning—back lines funneling through narrow throat.
I glanced inventory: 154 mythril units—packs nearly at encumbrance. Good enough or greedy? Debt demanded greed; survival begged humility.
"Time!" I shouted. "Phase Delta!" Hedrum planted dynamite at throat entrance. We sprinted back through pylon grid—Rowan marking safe line with tracer arrow. Once clear, Hedrum punched detonator.
Boom. Tunnel mouth folded like tin; magma gas hissed; pylon array overloaded, lances of energy corkscrewed destructive arcs. Enemy screams cut short.
System flashed:
Local Stability –40 %
Escape within 4 min recommended.
We didn't argue. Packs clanked; respirators hissed; we retraced anchor bolts up the shaft. At 100 m, a quake jarred rope; bolt popped above Hedrum. I swung sideways, drove titanite claws into wall, clipped secondary line. Liora's scream cut but rope caught; Rowan yanked her.
At last we broke into Needle's Eye path just as the seam began its next contraction. We hurled bodies through, dropping packs first to slide free space. Stone teeth slammed behind, sealing Ironclad fate uncertain.
Snow greeted us hours later—real atmosphere, weak gravity, scent of resin and frost. Packs weighed now like bricks but hearts soared.
We didn't stop at bivouac. Two more gravity hops, one minor nav error, and we reached bunker exit fissure. Dawn of second day glimmered; Flintspar's smokestacks barely visible on horizon.
Rowan laughed until voice cracked. "We did it. Again."
Hedrum collapsed to knees, kissed snow. Liora high-fived her own reflection in helmet glass.
Inventory screen scrolled:
Mythril Ore × 188
Rare Arc-Crystal Shard × 12
Ancient Pylon Capacitor (blue) × 1
Enough to pay debts, fund research, bribe devs to ignore logs—and buy Anna the violin she kept eyeing at pawn shop.
But I felt no triumph until OrbCoin queue finished. That would wait.
We staggered toward Gus's forge, titanite spikes crunching crust. Behind us, the Dyson Sphere stitched silent scars; ahead, the world smelled of coffee and possibility.