Chapter 18: The Motherlode and the Monster — “When the Stone Wakes”
Chapter 18: The Motherlode and the Monster — "When the Stone Wakes"
A hiss of recycled air greeted me when the Mark II respirator sealed, the click of the latches sounding like a prison door and a promise in the same breath. Nothing above the Twilight Hollow threshold resembled mercy: no mild breeze, no squeak of snow under heel-spikes, only a dead calm that pressed on the eardrums the way deep water does. Two days earlier Rowan, Hedrum, and Liora had hauled the Heart-shiver haul back to Flintspar—Mythril Ore × 188 safely smelted into bars that would erase rent for a year. Good, but not world-changing. I needed world-changing.
So while they healed dwarf burns and filed vendor orders, I came back. Solo this time. Greed was part of it, da, but mostly it was the math: Marco's crew wanted the whole principal by month-end, and the only deposit big enough to nuke that number lay somewhere beneath my boots, pulsing faint in the Ore Sense static like a distant heartbeat.
Lv 15 Gnome Artificer XP 9 910 / 18 000
HP 660 / 660 Stamina 470 / 470
STR 19 AGI 17 CON 23 INT 16 WIS 14 PER 27 LUK 11
Mining 49.3 Surveying 40.6 Blacksmithing 11.0 One-Handed 10.1
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
Debuff Cursed Handsomeness –1 (masked)
Stone Sense pinged a shallow echo, confirming the shaft didn't shift during my surface downtime. Gravity here pointed sideways again—east was down, down was some other direction the Sphere's ancient engineers had called convenient. I crab-walked along a ninety-degree wall, crampon spikes scraping showers of blue silica.
A kilometer in, the tunnel widened into the Gallery of Thorns. Crystal stalagmites jutted from floor, ceiling, and walls indiscriminately, some big as freight cars, all glowing lapis. Between them, ripples of golden ore signatures skittered at the edge of perception, subtle, elusive. If mythril veins were the Sphere's arteries, these were capillaries—enough to make a merchant salivate, not enough to save a family.
I should have left it alone. Should have turned back, banked the safe profit, hugged Anna and told her the landlord could wait. But should never paid a shark. I knelt behind a waist-high shard and whispered the trigger phrase I'd been terrified to use in company:
"Full-spectrum sweep. Override depth filter."
Ore Sense detonated. The world caught fire.
Veins flared through rock like constellations on fast-forward—copper wisps, silver tendrils, fat mythril ropes spiraling deeper. Behind them, something bigger: a singularity of white-hot brightness below the map's Z-limit, pulsing slow, each throb strong enough I swore I felt it in my molars.
Warning: Ore Sense amplitude > 200 %
Anomaly telemetry streaming…
Cooldown extended 600 s
Telemetry. The dev flag would sing like a canary. Too late now. I planted a glow-stick, noted the vector, and crab-walked toward the brightest centroid. The corridor bent, narrowed, opened again into a shaft that descended into nothing. Vapor curled upward, smelling of ozone and ancient dust, and the brightness came from below—a vast grotto yawning like a god's forge.
Rope anchors went in. Thirty meters down, my boots scraped a ledge. Lamps illuminated a cavern so wide my vision latency stuttered. Ore nodes peppered every surface: gold starbursts, quartz ribs, emerald freckles, and at the far end—a cliff face entirely composed of shimmering mythril, raw and perfect, its facets reflecting ghost images of my mask.
I stood there, pick slack in hand, doubt whispering that this had to be procedural art, not harvestable geometry. The System stomped on that thought:
Unmapped Resource Detected: Mythril Matrix (Grade S)
Integrity 99 %
Yield Estimate: 5 240 units
World Event Flag… none
Five thousand units. Ten times the Heart-shiver jackpot. More money than Marco's boss could launder in a fiscal quarter. My pulse war-drummed in my ears.
But the crawlspace between greed and doom is narrow. On the cavern floor sat a ring of ancient runes—three concentric circles of obsidian tiles, each etched with symbols older than any dwarf tongue. At their center loomed a dormant golem half sunk in slag, two stories tall, arms fused into a cross-pose as if crucified mid-creation.
The tooltip blinked once, red skull icon.
Entity: Ancient Core Guardian
Status: Dormant — Activation trigger: Resource depletion ≥ 0.1 %
Level: ??
A tenth of a percent. Five units of ore could wake it. Either the devs designed that trap or the Sphere itself didn't like freeloaders. No chance to nibble and leave. It was all or nothing.
I breathed through the respirator's bitter filters, mind scything scenarios. A full squad might kite the monster; a raid might burst it. But I was one miner with a sharpened pick, two satchels of dynamite, and a cooldown-locked miracle power already tattling to the admins.
"Fine," I muttered. "All it takes is one idiot with a plan."
I chalked a retreat path back to the shaft, set a timed charge at the bottleneck—plan B if everything went to coal. Then I strode to the mythril cliff.
First swing—clink—a coin-sized chip hit my palm, heavier than guilt. The rune circle flickered amber.
Mythril Ore +1 (0.019 %)
Second swing, I carved a fragment as big as a pigeon egg. Bright veins within pulsed like living tissue.
Mythril Ore +1 (0.038 %)
Third swing—crack. A plate sloughed off the cliff, shattering underfoot. The runes ignited blood-red, energy arcing between them like a cage of lightning rods.
Mythril Ore +3 (0.112 %)
Activation threshold exceeded.
The Guardian's eyes blazed cobalt. Metal screeched as it tore free, leaves of slag peeling like bark in a wildfire. One arm unfolded, each finger tipped with a drill bit spinning hot enough to vaporize frost thirty meters away. A voice deeper than subwoofer bass shook bones:
"PROPERTY OF THE HEART FORGE. RETURN MATERIALS OR BE RETURNED TO ELEMENTS."
I swallowed dry, slipped the first satchel's fuse, and threw it at the golem's ankle. The blast did exactly zero percent HP but staggered it a half-step, buying me ten seconds. I toggled sprint, pick and ore sacks bouncing, heading straight for the cave's right flank where quartz columns clustered like organ pipes—weak load-bearing points. Behind me, drills whined, shearing stone.
Halfway, a System ping:
Unbalanced encounter detected.
Auto-Balancing engaged — spawning Lesser Core Sprites × 10
Tiny ember sprites fountained from cracks, each no bigger than a helmet but fast and angry. Their collision path spiraled for my back. Perfect.
I threw the second satchel into the quartz forest, sprinted through, and flattened against a stunted column. The sprites chased; the Guardian lumbered; my fuse burned. Three… two… one—
BOOM.
Quartz shattered into white dust. The ceiling load above the blast line gave, raining megalith slabs onto the sprites and the Guardian's shin. Debris buried the smaller mobs; the golem's left leg pinned at the knee. It didn't roar—no vocal cords—but the rune ring flared hotter, new glyphs scrolling like anger.
I checked HP—still green. Stamina 71%. Ore inventory: 17 units. My pick pulsed mythril hunger.
"Not enough," I breathed. And then a whisper on the private channel I'd muted hours ago:
[Whisper] RowanAsh: "Turn around, tvrdolob."
An arrow streaked past, embedding in the Guardian's shoulder where a vent crystal glowed. The arrowhead detonated—Rowan's custom blast-tips—fracturing the vent. Blue plasma spewed, Guardian HP bar dipping maybe 2%. But more importantly, it froze a split-second, targeting reticle shifting from me to Rowan's perch half up the shaft wall.
"I told you to stay in town," I hissed over channel.
Rowan: "You told me if you didn't ping back by dawn I should follow the bread-crumbs. Dawn was two hours ago, prijatel'."
Above him, another slim shape—Hedrum's silhouette—flipped open a collapsible ballista, crank spinning.
"Liora on rear?"
"Naturally. She's brewing reloads."
Heart unclenched. Now it was a fight, not a suicide note.
I sprinted to Rowan's flank, ore sacks clanking. He loosed again; the golem swung an arm cannon—rock turned to glass in a laser line missing me by inches. Hedrum's first ballista bolt, rune-etched and tipped with a dynamite cluster, whistled down and cored the Guardian's other knee. HP dropped to 85%. It stumbled, half kneeling, drills gouging trenches.
Phase Change Detected: Core Guardian — ENRAGED. The rune ring split into orbiting shards that circled like blades, each trailing sparks. They shredded stalactites; shrapnel ricocheted singing off my helmet.
HP –56 (604/660) Bleed 1 stack (8 s)
I slammed a Lesser Coagulate potion. Wounds sealed with the taste of rust.
Rowan shouted, "Vent nexus on its back! See the crack module?"
I looked—yes, a panel shimmering unstable, swaying.
"Anchor line!" I yelled. He fired; line snared a jut of slag near the panel. I clipped in, kicked off the ground, and zip-line surfed across the air as shards shrieked by. Mid-air, I switched to pick grip, prayed, and swung.
CHANG! Pick punched through casing. Molten light geysered; Guardian HP 55%. But the rune orbit reversed and hammered my harness cable, severing tension. I fell—gravity sideways again—tucked and rolled across glassy rubble, HP down another 40.
Rowan cursed somewhere, Liora's voice high in comms chanting potion IP addresses. Hedrum roared, hauling his hammer into a powered slam that cratered the Guardian's foot. HP 48%.
We might actually do this.
But the auto-balance wasn't finished. The cavern floor split; three geyser vents erupted, birthing crystalline serpents—Core Coils—levels nearly my cap. They lunged at Hedrum; one chomped through his pauldron, another winging Rowan's quiver to splinters.
I toggled Ore Sense—cooldown still 480 s. Useless. Brain flashed geological diagrams anyway. The serpents were partially silicon; extreme cold brittled silica. The Guardian's plasma vent leaked cold plasma—sub-zero ions. I sprinted, vaulted rubble, stole two of Rowan's specialty arrowheads mid-run, shoved them into cracks near the vent leak until they flash-froze into popsicle bombs.
"Liora—det cord on my ping!"
She lobbed a vial. I stepped back. BAM! Frost shockwave cascaded across the floor, serpent bodies crystalizing mid-coil. Hedrum shattered them with two hammer arcs. Guardian HP 45%.
But the boss adapted. It raised a palm; glyphs spun; a beam lanced the ceiling. From the hole descended cylindrical housings that snapped onto its shoulders—missile pods, by the look. Great.
I had one trick left: the motherlode itself. The mythril matrix behind us thrummed with raw energy; its piezoelectric pulses must resonate under stress. Detonate enough load and perhaps the shockwave would disrupt the Guardian's core—or vaporize us.
"Rowan, Hedrum—plan Pyrite," I said over comm.
Rowan's breath hissed. "Risky."
"Worse than a missile to the visor?"
He grunted affirmative. Hedrum growled dwarven assent. Liora just giggled—mad scientist delight.
We sprinted to the cliff, slapping shaped charges into cracks every three meters. Rune fuses synced to my HUD: 7…6…5…
Guardian missiles shrieked free—three seekers swirling. Rowan shot one mid-air; Liora chalk-splashed an alchemic flare that decoyed the second. The third locked on me. I dived behind a stanchion. Explosion white-flashed; HP dipped 20. Timer hit two seconds.
I screamed into channel: "DOWN!"
Charges blew. The entire mythril wall flexed like a bell struck by a titan. Sonic resonance harmonized through cavern stone at a frequency that rattled teeth. A pressure wave hammered outward; runic shards snuffed; Guardian stance faltered. And the cliff face split top to bottom under its own crystalline stress—five thousand units of ore fracturing into avalanches of razor-edged slabs.
A slab the size of a delivery van slammed into the Guardian's chest, pinning it. Glyphs flickered static; HP free-fell to 10%, then 7.3, then 4. The golem reached for power, turbines whirring above redline—but crack detonations inside its chest vented arc light like a dying sun.
Rowan nocked his last blast-tip, drew, exhaled slow. "For tuition fees," he muttered, and loosed.
Arrow punched the reactor seam; white-blue starfire erupted. Guardian HP 0%. The golem froze, broke along fault lines, and collapsed into a heap of inert alloy.
≪WORLD FIRST: Ancient Core Guardian Defeated≫
XP + 42 000
Level Up × 3 (Lv 15 → 18)
Title Gained: Corebreaker Supreme
Loot Drop: Heart-Forge Core Capacitor (Relic, Bind on Pickup)
The cavern hushed save for chimed UI fanfare and our ragged breathing. Mythril shards lay everywhere, still warm. Rowan slumped on a boulder, arrowless bow across knees.
Hedrum's beard was half-singed, eyes shining like he'd kissed a thunderstorm and lived. "So," he rumbled. "Anyone else hungry?"
Liora popped her visor, drew in the sulfur-spiced air, and laughed, high and ringing, until tears fogged her lenses.
Inventory counters scrolled as we shoveled ore into dimensional sacks: Mythril Ore × 542…721…1 004 and climbing. We left two-thirds still on the floor—no packspace—but who cared? Debt, rent, future college funds: every chip glowed promise.
And then the System's calm malevolence re-asserted itself.
Admin Alert: Telemetry congruent with anomaly report C-19.
Affected Session: Orefinder
Instruction: Present at nearest Admin Hub for audit.
Compliance window: 24 real-hours.
Silence fell. Even Hedrum stopped counting.
Rowan whistled low. "They tracked your perk under the Guardian's meltdown."
I nodded, throat tight. "Could be a data sweep or a ban. We'll fight it."
Hedrum hefted a boulder of ore bigger than his helmet into a sack. "First, we cash-out. Audit won't empty our accounts retroactively."
"Da," I agreed, grip tightening on the Shadow Veil tucked under collar. "They can question me afterward. I'll answer every log. But the Sphere's debts to my family finish today."
We set timers, exited the grotto, and began the long climb—packs groaning, legs burning, yet hearts light as helium. The mythril motherlode still shimmered behind us, but it was no longer a dream; it was weight on our backs, coin in our pockets, futures in escrow.
Hours later, we breached the surface. Twilight air bit nose tips; snowflakes melted on armor sizzling with latent heat. Far below, Flintspar's forge smoke rose gentle blue, like a welcome-home banner.
I opened OrbCoin's exchange panel, fingers trembling. Numbers cascaded:
Deposit queued: 1 147 Mythril Ore → Smelt (Grade S)
Conversion Estimate: 872 g 44 s → ✧ ≈ 173 000 AUD
Enough to bury Marco's ledger, replace the apartment's peeling wallpaper, and maybe—just maybe—put me back in a university lecture hall instead of underground.
Rowan slapped my shoulder. "Sister's violin fund now?"
"And brother's robotics camp," I said, voice hoarse.
In the east, the Dyson sun climbed artificial dawn, light kissing frost to diamonds. The Sphere hummed, still endless, still hungry, still secretive—but for the first time since debt became destiny, its hum sounded like invitation, not sentence.
I pinged Gus: "Forge hot by the time we arrive. We're bringing you a new retirement plan."
His reply came seconds later, two words only: Bring ale.
We laughed the whole trek home—miners' laughter, brittle yet unbroken—until the forge hammers of Flintspar drowned us in clangs of tomorrow.
Tomorrow held audits, admin crosshairs, maybe another bounty spike—but tomorrow could wait. Tonight we were alive, rich, and together. For a miner in an endless world, there was no vein deeper than that.
Chapter 19 – The Haul and the Hubris
A half-dead torch sputtered overhead when Rowan and I finally limped into the ore-weigh alcove of Smelter Tunnel B-17—a forgotten junction the Union used as an unofficial break room. The place stank of old slag and wet basalt, but it also sat two loading screens beyond any Ironclad patrol route. Privacy trumped perfume. We bolted the steel hatch, collapsed against a stack of rust-flecked ingot molds, and just breathed for a blessed minute.
My HUD still pulsed red from fatigue, but habit forced me to pull the stat pane anyway.
Lv 18 Gnome Artificer XP 4 920 / 32 000
HP 780 / 780 Stamina 520 / 520
STR 21 AGI 18 CON 25 INT 17 WIS 15 PER 29 LUK 11
Mining 54.6 Surveying 43.2 Blacksmithing 12.4 One-Handed 11.9
Titles Skilled Laborer | Bastion-Builder | Corebreaker Supreme
Perks Ore Sense (cd 600 s) | Stone Sense | Endurance Miner
Status Bounty 2 g (scaling) | Dev Flag C-19
Currency 11 g 12 s 77 c
Debuff Cursed Handsomeness –1 (masked by Shadow Veil)
The numbers blurred from exhaustion, but one line hammered home the insanity of the last forty-eight in-game hours:
Inventory Mythril Ore × 1 147 (Encumbrance 94 %)
Rowan slumped beside me, bow unstrung, eyes wild with that near-death afterglow only raiders or accident survivors understand. He gave a low whistle when he opened his own pane.
[Party Share] RowanAsh received: Mythril Ore × 312
"Look at that," he said, voice hoarse. "We just skewed the server's entire metal economy."
"Da," I answered, grinning despite cracked lips. "And we still need to figure out how to unload it without painting a bull's-eye the size of Moskva."
My hands shook—not fear anymore, just adrenaline withdrawal—so I set up Gus's portable scale on a crate. One by one, we heaved the mythril ingots—still runed with heat blooms—into neat stacks. Each thunk echoed like coin hitting marble. By the time we finished counting, the safe alcove looked like a dragon's minimalist loft.
Rowan rubbed a gloved thumb over a bar's mirror-bright edge. "Going rate is forty-four silver per unit, right? Market might dip after the Guardian announcement, call it forty. That's…" He did the math aloud, because of course he did. "Forty-five thousand, eight hundred gold. Real-world conversion at today's ratio puts us near ninety grand Aussie." He leaned back, helmet thudding into the rock. "That clears your family's debt and funds my next two semesters."
I exhaled slowly. The tunnel felt too small for the numbers spiraling in my head. Ninety thousand. Anna's violin. Mitya's robotics camp. Electric bills paid a year in advance. Maybe even tuition to finish my geology degree. For a dizzy moment I imagined hauling my siblings onto a plane to a beach where no one spoke of loan sharks.
But euphoria evaporated when the practical demon perched on my shoulder whispered: Your mythril comes with neon arrows. Dumping a thousand units in one sale will crash prices and send Dungrim running your name through guild channels before the first coin hits your pouch.
Rowan must have been hosting a similar demon, because he asked, "How do we move this amount without every power broker sniffing us out?"
"Discretion," I said. "We break the haul, sell in slices through trusted crafters. Union shops only. No auction house, no global chat."
He nodded, but worry creased his brow. "Ironclad monitors Union outlets, too. Word leaks."
"Then we stagger. Ship forty units to Liora's alchemy guild in Brightwater, another fifty to Hedrum's cousin in Frostforge, spread the rest over six markets. Slow—yes. Quiet—hopefully."
Rowan tapped the metal plate of his vambrace like a chewed pencil. "Might take weeks. Your shark's timer—?"
"Two weeks left on the principal," I admitted. "But I can make a seventy-five percent lump within days. Enough to buy time." Saying it made my stomach unclench a notch.
We shared the kind of grin soldiers exchange after stealing rations back from their captain. A fragile giddiness, but genuine.
That's when the knock came.
Not the door—there was no polite door, only our sealed hatch. The sound floated from the adjoining ventilation grate: three taps, pause, two taps. Union code for friendly, needs talk. Still, my hand went to the short sword at my belt.
Rowan unslung his bow and nocked an arrow. He mouthed, "Ready."
I crossed, slid the grate open. A slender figure dropped catlike into the room—a tall woman in charcoal leathers, hood shadowing features. The HUD tagged her: Marra Greysong (L 22 Rogue). I recognized the name from OreTalk forums: a broker who specialized in high-value mats. She was neither Union nor Ironclad, which made her doubly dangerous.
She raised empty palms. "Evening, Orefinder. Relax—I come bearing opportunities, not blades."
Rowan didn't lower his arrow. "Opportunities usually bleed."
Marra smiled—a thin slice of moon. "Suit yourselves. Word travels faster than mithril reacts to acid. Certain…investors caught wind that a gnome miner and his archer friend survived the Core Guardian with a very healthy haul. They're prepared to purchase the entire stock, here and now, no questions, no market exposure."
She produced a crystal data token. Even from six meters I saw the shimmering denomination: 500 000 g.
Half a million gold.
My pulse spiked. That was more than double the theoretical market value—and orders of magnitude beyond the debt.
Marra kept her tone casual, but there was steel beneath. "Transfer clears in under thirty seconds. You hand over the ore, I hand over the token, we each walk away richer. Clean, efficient."
I thought of Anna's worried eyes, of Marco's threats. Greased lightning could solve every problem if I just reached—
Rowan's voice cut my reverie. "What's the catch?"
Marra shrugged. "Only that my principals remain anonymous. Consider them…private collectors."
Private collectors in a VR MMO? Right. More likely Ironclad fronts laundering their takeover. Or worse, the loan shark's digital proxies trying to own me before I owned myself.
But oh, the sweet relief in that token.
I forced breath through the respirator valves. Numbers were my drug; I needed a cold shower of logic. So I asked, "How did you find us? This tunnel isn't on public grids."
She tapped her temple. "You're flagged with Dev Notice C-19. Admin clusters monitor anomaly vectors. Someone pays for access to that feed. They saw your session drop here. Simple triangulation."
So the dev flag that chased me for weeks now painted bull's-eyes for mercenary brokers. Lovely.
Rowan angled his arrow. "He's not selling."
I hadn't spoken yet. He sensed my hesitation and rammed conviction into the room before greed could metastasize. My throat tightened with gratitude and shame.
Marra sighed theatrically. "Think this through, friends. You off-load bit by bit, price drops, guilds sniff, Ironclad confiscates half in the inevitable ambush. Maybe you make forty percent. Maybe you wind up banned if the admins decide your perk is an exploit. My offer guarantees you walk away with maximum value and clean ledgers."
Clean ledgers? Doubtful. A deal that size would raise AML flags IRL. And if her backers were the sharks, I'd be signing away autonomy for a single lump that they could still twist into another debt later.
I stepped forward. "Appreciate the courtesy, Marra. Truly. But we'll pass."
She studied me—brown eyes sharp as diamond drill bits. "You're turning down half a million gold?"
"I'm turning down strings attached to a noose."
Marra plucked imaginary lint from her sleeve. "Last chance. The sphere rewards boldness."
"She said no," Rowan growled.
I held up a hand. "He's not my mouthpiece. I said no."
A second passed, taut as piano wire. Then Marra winked. "Integrity is such an amusing hazard. Very well." She returned the token to a hidden pocket. "Consider the door always open—though rates fluctuate with market events. Good luck keeping your skin intact." She vaulted back through the grate without another sound.
Rowan let the arrow down but kept it between fingers. "You okay?"
My knees finally admitted exhaustion, and I sank against the ingot stack. "Ask me after my heart exits free-fall."
He sat beside me. "That money would've solved the debt."
"It would've bought the illusion of safety." I rubbed grit from my eyelids. "Sharks smell blood even when the ledger's balanced. We pay them honestly or not at all."
His nod carried quiet respect. "Then we do this the hard way."
"Hard way's the only way that sticks," I said, feeling the words harden into a vow.
We spent the next hour drafting a distribution grid: which Union crafters we trusted, how many bars each could off-load without raising suspicion, shipping routes staggered across different server downtimes. Rowan's academic brain turned risk variables into tidy columns; my geology math handled weight, bulk, and travel fatigue. By the time the plan read solid, the cavern's shadows had crept across the floor like slow ink.
I cut the ingot stacks into five lots: three hundred units for my siblings' salvation fund, two hundred for Rowan's tuition and supply upkeep, one hundred for Gus—undisputed share for gear and loyalty—and the rest reserved for Liora, Hedrum, and other allies who'd risked lives in Heart-shiver.
Rowan protested. "Gus didn't swing a sword today."
"He forged the respirators that kept our lungs intact," I countered. "Debt of air is still debt."
He accepted that logic with a grunt.
When the last bar found its crate, I triggered a new party contract interface.
Player Orefinder proposes Profit Split v2.1
— Orefinder: 40 %
— RowanAsh: 20 %
— Guildsmith Gus: 10 %
— Hedrum Rockbarrel: 10 %
— Liora Vervain: 10 %
— Contingency Fund (Union relief): 10 %
Accept / Decline
Six green checkmarks lit. The System chimed:
Group Integrity +10
New Party Title Unlocked: Companions of the Core
A minor buff icon perched in my HUD—five percent shared luck. Small change, but the symbolism warmed marrow gone cold from deals and double-deals.
Rowan stretched. "We should sleep—real sleep. Can't move freight if we log out unconscious."
I agreed, but first toggled the Dev Flag overlay. A line of small type glowed: Telemetry queued for review. The Motherlode's distortions still painted admin radar. If an audit triggered before we cashed out even a single bar, Ironclad's mercies would look gentle compared to a perma-ban.
Exhaustion flocked my thoughts dark. I needed a shower, a seventeen-hour anti-gravity nap, and Anna's laugh. But reality wouldn't pause.
"Go," I told Rowan. "Log out. You've got nine AM lecture in six hours."
He arched a ginger brow. "And you?"
"I'll run first courier drop to Gus. Less weight for tomorrow."
"Solo?"
"Tunnel's mapped. Low risk."
He eyed the hatch. "Text me when you're IRL."
"Spasibo, mom," I teased, but gratitude curled in my chest.
Rowan left, taking half the crates via teleport scroll. When the spell flash faded, silence reclaimed the alcove. For a moment I just listened to the blink of my stamina bar and the slow drip of mineral water into a rust pan. Mythril bars winked like captive moons around me.
I wondered what Dad would've said, seeing his bookish son juggling fortunes inside a video game to keep bread on the table. Probably something like, Rock is honest, but money's a shifty ore—refine it or it poisons you.
I loaded my cart with Gus's share and pushed into the tunnel. The wheels squealed a lullaby of ambition and responsibility in equal measure.
* * *
Smelter Avenue lay quiet save for forge embers and the occasional thud of night-shift hammers. Lamplight painted Gus's workshop in molten amber. The dwarf himself snoozed in a chair, beard tied behind his neck to avoid the furnace sparks. I nudged his boot.
He woke with a snort, hand already grabbing for a nonexistent maul. When he saw me, the scowl melted.
"Back in one piece. Pleasant surprise." He spotted the cart. "Is that what I think it is?"
"Payment for services rendered," I said, rolling the first crate toward the weigh platform.
He popped a lid, eyes reflecting mythril like twin furnaces. "How much?"
"One hundred. Your cut."
He laughed—a deep, tectonic sound. "I charged you two silver for forge time. This is highway robbery in reverse."
"Take it, Gus. Equipment, future respirator generations, retirement island—your call."
He studied me, beard curls twitching. "You're serious." At my nod, his gaze softened. "Well, blast my anvil. All right." He locked the crate, stashed it behind a false wall. "What's your plan for the rest? Ironclad's bristling like a porcupine doused in kerosene."
I recapped the split, the slow drip, the shady broker.
Gus's thick brows flattened. "Good you refused. Those types pay in daggers." He slapped a palm on my shoulder. "Remember, lad: quick gold rusts, slow gold plates your bones."
"Old gnome proverb?" I asked.
"Old dwarf wallet," he corrected, chuckling.
He pressed a clay seal into my palm—a stylized pick over anvil. "Union authenticity stamp. Slap this on any mythril you sell. Guarantees buyers it's legit, not duped. Buyers pay premium for trust."
Another advantage over Marra's devil bargain. I clasped his wrist. "Spasibo."
Gus's eyes twinkled. "Go home, get real sleep. Debt dragons wait daylight to breathe fire."
I promised I would.
As I left, System whispers trailed—town criers posting about mythril price spikes, rumor threads linking the Core Guardian kill to a "gnome mining cartel." Hype marched faster than spam bots. Time shrank.
* * *
Real-world dawn seeped through my apartment blinds when the capsule hissed open. Muscles whined; brain fog swirled. But Anna's laughter cut through. She sat at the cramped kitchen table, balancing Mitya's cereal tower.
"You're up early," I croaked.
"Science fair," she said. "We needed popsicle sticks." She eyed my trembling hands. "You look like you fought a bear."
I smiled. "Worse. Bureaucrats."
She didn't get the joke, but her brow furrowed with sibling worry. I pulled her into a quick hug despite sweaty VR suit. "Progress," I whispered. "Real progress."
In the washroom mirror I saw red VR strap marks across my temples—a miner's brand of the digital age. I rinsed, dressed, wolfed stale bread. Marco's deadline pulsed behind my eyes, but for the first time the target looked smaller than the arrows in my quiver.
Phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: Offer still open. Rate drops ten percent each hour. Attached was a picture of the 500 000 g token.
I blocked the number.
Then I wired five hundred dollars—the week's interest—to Marco's account. Not surrender, but olive branch. Message: Partial. Remaining to follow on schedule.
Seconds later, read receipt. No threats came back. Silence louder than gunfire.
I logged back in after a three-hour nap, enough REM to keep hallucinations at bay. Rowan pinged: deliveries en route to Brightwater and Frostforge. Liora reported potion orders booming. Hedrum bragged the Frostforge blacksmith fainted at first sight of the ingot stash.
System pinged me with a private mail:
Administrator Notice: Your anomaly report is under routine review.
Please prepare to submit a diagnostic log within 72-hour window.
Failure to comply may result in temporary account hold.
Seventy-two hours. Three days to liquidate bulk, settle debts, and brace for potential admin lockout. Could be coincidence, or Ironclad lobbying.
Either way, timer reset.
New Quest Added: Audit Countdown
Objective: Submit diagnostic log or obtain exemption (0/1)
Timer: 71:59:59
Failure Penalty: Account suspension
I snorted. The System itself had become another creditor.
Rowan called on voice. "We just hit Brightwater's smelting furnace. Market dipped two silver so far. Still profitable."
"Good. Keep batches under thirty. Next drop in three hours."
He hesitated. "You trust those admins?"
"I trust paperwork more than shadows. We show them raw logs, no filters—demonstrate Ore Sense is coded in, not injected cheat. Transparency buys leniency."
"And if they still call it exploit?"
"Then we appeal. Community stands with us. Core Guardian world-first isn't a trophy they'll nuke lightly."
A pause, then Rowan's soft laugh. "Listen to you. Two months ago you barely spoke in chat. Now you're planning PR campaigns."
"Debt breeds character," I joked.
But inside, I felt the change: from tunnel rat to planner, from lone pick to lynchpin. Responsibility weighed heavy, but it no longer crushed; it forged.
* * *
By server midnight our courier spiders had delivered over two hundred bars, each stamped with Gus's seal. Union crafters reported thriving blacksmith queues, prices holding steady thanks to controlled supply trickle. My OrbCoin account glowed with deposits incremental yet powerful—enough already to zero out seventy-five percent of Marco's ledger. Not victory, but the high slope of a final ascent.
Rowan and I returned to the alcove to stash the remaining crates. As we sealed the hatch, he said, "Feels wrong not to celebrate."
I raised an imaginary glass. "We'll toast when loan sharks become bedtime stories."
He grinned. "Fair." Then his expression shifted to something heavier. "You sure you don't want extra bodyguards? Dungrim's quiet. Too quiet."
I shook my head. "Quiet means plotting. But until Ironclad recovers from their wipe, they'll focus on reputation damage control. Gives us a window."
Rowan lowered himself onto a crate. "Remember when we struggled to afford fletching glue?"
"Now you can buy the factory."
He chuckled. "Humbling, da? We nearly sold out to that broker. Would've been rich and dead inside."
"I think I prefer poor and breathing," I said.
Silence settled, companionable. The glowstones flickered, casting mythril reflections across the walls like captive starlight. For a heartbeat I let myself believe the hardest part was behind us.
Then the System's global channel erupted:
Ironclad Guild Announcement: "The thief who stole our mythril thinks he can hide behind Union scum. 10 g bounty for the gnome's head. Proof of kill required. Happy hunting."
My lungs froze mid-breath.
Rowan looked at me, bow already in hand. "Window just slammed shut."
I checked the bounty boards. My avatar portrait, a hastily sketched gnome face with too-big eyes, now headlined the Kill-On-Sight list. Ten gold—nothing to high-levels, but plenty incentive for opportunistic PKers.
He spat an oath. "We're moving markets, and half the server's out for blood."
"Then we raise the stakes higher," I said, voice steady in a way that surprised even me.
"Higher than this?"
"Yes," I answered, staring at the dwindling Ore Sense cooldown—five hundred seconds, crawling. "We finish the liquidation, pay the debt, and we make Ironclad wish they'd stayed in their iron cave."
"Plans?"
"A better pick. A public ledger. And maybe…" I hesitated, then shared a half-mad idea that had sprouted when I read the audit quest line. "We turn the admin review into a spotlight. Show the devs how Ironclad exploits PK loopholes. Let the System police them for us."
Rowan's eyes widened. "You want to weaponize transparency?"
"Honesty is the sharpest pick," I said, tasting the irony.
Outside, footfalls echoed far down the main tunnel—likely random miners, maybe bounty hunters. Time to move.
We packed what remained, split routes, and dove into the labyrinthine network we now knew like heartbeat rhythms. Each step clanged with risk, but purpose steeled nerve: I had less than seventy-two hours to turn mythril into freedom and audits into armour.
And somewhere in the echoing dark, Dungrim Ironheart sharpened vengeance.
But for tonight, my pack bulged with possibility, and the path underfoot hummed vein-songs of better tomorrows. I set my spikes, adjusted my grip, and marched into the tunnel's yawning throat, a miner with a fortune on his back and a deadline nipping his heels.
Ahead, rock whispered of debts turning to dust.
I intended to listen.
Chapter 20 – Pressure Points and Percentages
Snowmelt drummed a quickstep on the tin roof the moment I slithered out of the immersion capsule, lungs raw from three‐night caffeine abuse. Thick, miner-gray dawn in the real world—but inside my skull flowed ledgers, cooldown timers, and coin weights, all brighter than the kitchen bulb that flickered like a dying torch.
I still smelled forge soot that wasn't there. Mythril bars gleamed behind my eyelids every time I blinked. And the number—75 %—fluttered in neon above the sink full of unwashed bowls: three-quarters of Marco's debt scraped together, laundered from polygonal ore into honest Australian dollars. Enough to taste victory, just not enough to swallow it.
Anna padded in wearing yesterday's hoodie. "You're vibrating," she said in Russian, pushing a mug of instant coffee toward me.
"Mining by proxy," I joked, voice shredded. I took the mug. Sugar scorched my tongue sweeter than any loot fanfare. Anna's math notebook sat open beside the cereal. The quadratic scribbles looked easier than the yield curves I'd been juggling overnight. I ruffled her hair. "Your violin fund just went platinum—almost."
She rolled her eyes, but her bite of toast crunched relief. Almost.
Mitya surfaced next, dragging the LEGO siege catapult he'd rebuilt at 3 a.m. He salvoed a marshmallow at my head. "Did you defeat the rock dragon?"
"Round one," I said. "Boss dropped partial loot."
The catapult twanged again. Marshmallow stuck to the fridge door under Marco's reminder note: PAY EVERYTHING—DATE WON'T MOVE AGAIN. I peeled the sugar shell off the cheap laminate and felt my pulse slam into gear for another session.
Four thousand words of breathing room, I promised the ceiling. Here we go.
I logged back in before the coffee cooled. The capsule's blue gel interior hummed like a heart monitor. Endless Worlds unrolled around me: pine-scented mountain air, tiny snowcaps on the peaks, forge smoke curling from Flintspar's chimneys. The interface blinked alive with the numbers that mattered more than blood pressure.
Lv 18 Gnome Artificer XP 4 920 / 32 000
HP 780 / 780 Stamina 520 / 520
STR 21 AGI 18 CON 25 INT 17 WIS 15 PER 29 LUK 11
Mining 54.6 Surveying 43.2 Blacksmithing 12.4 One-Handed 11.9
Titles Skilled Laborer | Bastion-Builder | Corebreaker Supreme
Status Bounty 2 g (scaling) | Dev Flag C-19
Currency 11 g 12 s 77 c
Debuff Cursed Handsomeness –1 (masked)
Inventory pane scrolled:
Mythril Ore × 488
Iron Ingot × 90
Titanite Shard × 7
From eleven hundred to four-eighty-eight—good bleed rate. At our glide slope, the market hardly blipped—price dropped only four silver overnight, steadied by Gus's authenticity seals. Union crafters were geniuses at keeping supply appearing random. Rowan's spreadsheets said two more days and the rest would trickle through clean.
System chat pinged in guild green:
[Union] HedrumRockbarrel: Orcish smith in Frostforge bought today's tranche—paid 42 s apiece. Ale's on me.
[Union] RowanAsh: Brightwater alchs tapped out for now, moving south. Orefinder, status?
I keyed mic. "Debiting. Next courier run in thirty minutes. Watch Ironclad rumor wells."
Rowan's typing ellipsis paused. Then:
[Union] RowanAsh: Dungrim silent since bounty message. Too quiet.
—Log IC scouting from dwarf wardens. Meet after your drop?
"Affirmative," I said. I closed chat and shouldered Gus's courier pack—twelve bars wrapped in leather, stamped with the crossed-pick seal. Weight dragged on avatar spine but hope lightened everything else.
Smelter Tunnel B-17 turned hive since we'd used it as counting room. Union runners rotated in shifts, slipping crates through secret vents, each exchange a whispered symphony of clinks and paper signatures. Old Gus managed the ledger like a banker goblin, minus the greed.
He greeted me with a toothy grin. "Day two, and the economy hasn't imploded. Told you discreet trickle beats flood."
I set the pack on his scale plate. The needle quivered, settled. Gus tapped a formula into his abacus. "Five hundred ninety silver at current spread. Minus transport, minus tithe to the Union relief fund—call it five-thirty."
"Bank it," I said. "Auto-convert two-hundred gold equivalent to TreasuryCoin, route to my Sydney branch." That would pop the real-life balance high enough for tonight's meeting.
Gus scribbled, hammer-calloused fingers spry. "Done. Any blowback from the admin audit?"
I grimaced. "Clock ticks. Forty-eight hours left to submit anomaly log or get suspended. I'll deliver it after the partial payment IRL."
The dwarf's beard twitched. "You sure giving devs raw logs won't hang you? That perk of yours blinks like illegal fireworks to them."
"Better to confess than be thrown in the dungeon," I said. "And transparency ruins Ironclad's 'he's a cheater' propaganda."
Gus clapped my shoulder so hard my HP lost one point. "Courage, lad."
As I turned to leave, he tossed a felt pouch. "Emergency." Inside lay three miniature rune vials—Stone-skin Draught, Rank III. Rare, eighty silver each.
"Too expensive," I protested.
"Too dead otherwise," he countered. "Pay later. Or don't. Consider it thanks for keeping these old forges busy." He winked—a spark in iron-soot lashes—and bent back to the ledger.
Teleport fees pinched each time, so I hoofed the mountain switchbacks to the nearest faction bank, lantern light painting frosty blue on granite railings. Town guards dozed at posts; a bard's lute drifted from the Silver Cask inn. For a blissful hour the Sphere felt like a peaceful backdrop, not a knife-edged factory.
Then the General chat shrilled.
IroncladCrier: Mythril prices spiking? Funny—must be thieves dumping scrap.
IroncladCrier: Remember: report suspicious gnomes with ore beyond their station. Bounties paid on proof.
I kept walking. Can't swat every mosquito.
At the Miners' Guild Bank, an NPC clerk took the sealed bars, stamped receipts, and flashed the confirmation window:
Deposit: Mythril Bar × 12
Exchange Rate: 38 s 80 c
Transaction Fee: 3 %
Net Credit: 4 g 51 s
Would you like to convert to OrbCoin? Y/N
"Y," I whispered. A second pane:
OrbCoin Transfer → Commonwealth Bank (AUS)
Amount: ₳ 8 434.00
Processing… Complete.
Eight thousand more into the war chest. My gut fluttered.
I logged out midday to shower and dress in real jeans that felt heavier than in-game plate. Bus ride rattled forty minutes into the industrial district where Marco's people nested—a half-abandoned boxing gym reeking of sweat, bleach, and old grudges.
The loan shark's runner awaited—Vince the Brick, bald, arms thick as mine cart wheels. He blinked when I slid the printed bank draft across the desk.
"That's seventy-five percent of the number," I said in English to dodge eavesdroppers. "Early, as goodwill."
Vince counted zeros. "Boss'll be…surprised."
"Pleasantly, I hope," I said.
He snorted. "Depends on his mood." He reached for a battered ledger, flipped pages. "Contract says full principal plus forty percent penalty if final balance not delivered by term."
"Penalty?" My voice cracked like thin ice. "We negotiated extension. Interest already folded in."
"Fine print, gnome." He jabbed a greasy finger. "Clause eight-B: Significant partial payment before maturity entitles lender to reassess risk premium. New risk is you bail early. So premium jumps."
Blood roared in my ears louder than forge bellows. I inhaled, counted to four. "How much?"
"Remaining plus ten grand. Australian." He smiled like a rusted bear trap. "And we keep collateral clause on your uncle's kneecaps."
"You're moving the goalposts," I said in Russian out of reflex. He didn't understand, but tone traveled.
He pushed the bank draft back. "Boss wants the whole loaf fresh, not crumbs."
I pocketed the slip, pulse hammering. "You'll get it in a week," I said. Lie? Promise? Both. "Then we're done."
He shrugged. "Clock's ticking. Tick louder every night, da?"
I left before my fists answered.
Rain knifed down as buses wheezed home. Apartment hallway smelled of curry and neighbor quarrels. I ducked into the bathroom, forehead against cool tile, and let anger steam out with each breath.
Seventy-five percent apparently worthless. My family still hostage. Ten grand extra barrier conjured from ink. And inside the Sphere, Ironclad painting targets on skulls.
I wanted to scream or break something. Instead I fetched Anna's violin case from the closet, traced the scratches, and whispered: "Soon."
She poked her head in—sensed the storm. "Bad?"
"Not terminal." I forced a smile. "Just a longer ascent."
She nodded, and that silent trust stabbed deeper than Vince's sleaze. I ruffled her hair again and promised homemade pelmeni tomorrow—another IOU on sleep.
Night session. Capsule hatch sealed like coffin; I welcomed oblivion behind HUD's glow. Rowan pinged the moment terrain rendered—he'd camped at Three-Cleft Bridge leading to Brightwater plain.
RowanAsh: B-License hunters sniffing for you. Two tried to stop my wagon—they're sharing your portrait on message boards.
"Copy," I said, voice flat through comm. "Sharks jerked the chain. Need full amount fast."
Rowan swore. "They can't do that."
"They just did." I exhaled. "How's our buffer?"
"We've liquidated another hundred bars. Market stable but whispers louder. Liora's potion sales up—she says demand for 'combat stimulants' spikes after Ironclad posts bounties. Coincidence?"
"Doubtful." I scanned the path—fireflies hovered, but no hostile tags. "Plan stands. We push rest through tonight. Then we ghost until audit clears."
Rowan hesitated. "There's talk Ironclad chartered Black-Wing mercs to 'blockade' transport routes. We might need alternate lanes."
I opened the regional map—veins of carriage roads lit orange. "Can we reroute via Ravenspire Gorge? Seven extra kilometers, fewer checkpoints."
"Terrain nasty. Gravity axis flips twice."
"We've done worse."
"Da," he echoed, borrowing my accent. "Meet at Quarry-Five in ten?"
"On my way."
Quarry-Five looked like a mouthful of broken teeth—jagged pillars under starlit skylight vents. We cached mythril crates in a false floor during the Heart-shiver drills; tonight I needed them moved.
Rowan crouched beside the stash, re-packing bars into padded satchels. His breath fogged in the simulated chill.
"Weight distribution okay?" I asked.
"Within encumbrance," he said, sliding straps over my shoulders. "Remember we're only mules until Brightwater vault."
Encumbrance 73 % → Movement Speed –10 %
Stamina Drain +15 %
I accepted the debuff sting. "Once funds land IRL, I'll pay courier dwarves to move the rest. Tonight we're the dwarves."
He grinned, but tension twitched at the edges. "Got something for you." He offered a short sword—my old pawn-shop blade, now glinting with new rune etchings.
"Upgraded," he said. "We can't rely on explosives every time."
I took it. Tooltip popped:
Reforged Short Sword (Rare)
Damage 42-51 Durability 120/120
Modifier: Lightweight (+5 % swing speed)
Enchantment: Frostbite I – 10 % chance to slow target
"Beautiful," I breathed. "How much do I owe?"
"Call it payment for not dying," he said.
We clasped wrists. Then we moved.
Ravenspire Gorge was a scar in the mountain, gravity vectors snarled like drunken spiders. Pathfinding meant spider-walk harnesses—titanite spikes on boot edges. We advanced sideways on what felt like a cliff yet registered as floor. Snowflakes drifted horizontally past our noses, disorienting.
Halfway, Rowan's Ore-sniffer arrow—one he'd repurposed to track enemy footfalls—vibrated. "Multiple contacts, fifty meters."
I toggled Stone Sense—endless static shimmer. Cooldown on Ore Sense still six minutes. "Positions?"
He nocked arrow. "Elevation plus-thirty. Could be Black-Wing scouts."
"Ambush here would drop us into the Celestial melt pool," I muttered.
We swapped to whisper-pace. My heart hammered so loud I feared it'd echo.
A stone above dislodged—a deliberate kick. Figures in charcoal armor rappelled, cloaks lined with black feathers: the mercenary brand. Five of them. Crossbows already up.
Rowan whispered, "They want loot, not kills. We jettison weight?"
"Negative," I said, drawing the frost-edge sword. "We bleed before we surrender Anna's future."
Crossbow bolts whistled. I ducked; one scraped my helm. Rowan loosed an arrow—exploded into flash powder, blinding two scouts. I sprinted, legs pumping against angled gravity, and slashed at the nearest merc. The sword hissed ice along the cut; his HP dipped but not enough.
Timer popped on my HUD: Stone-skin Draught, 1 charge ready. I popped the cork with teeth, downed the contents—granite fire in veins.
Buff Applied: Stone-skin – Damage Reduction +20 % (90 s)
Another bolt thunked into my shoulder—HP down 62. Pain dulled by draught. I barreled forward and shoulder-checked the shooter near the ledge. Gravity flipped under our combined mass; he tumbled "up" into sky, screaming until the physics returned him to gorge floor far below.
Three left. Rowan's second flash arrow burst. I pivoted, parried a sword strike, riposted into thigh. Slow effect triggered; enemy movement lagged like molasses.
"Anchor line!" Rowan shouted. I saw cable streak, clamp onto a spike behind me. He yanked—pulled the staggered merc off balance and into the same lethal drop.
Two remaining, one injured. They broke, retreat grapples firing.
Rowan aimed but I grabbed his arm. "Let them run. Cargo intact?"
He patted side satchel. "Took a bolt but bars fine."
HP regen ticking, I swallowed burnt saliva. "That was the easy probe."
Rowan nodded. "Ironclad intel definitely sold our route."
We quick-stepped across the last gravity tilt. No more contacts.
System Notice: Enemy threat disengaged.
Skill Progress – One-Handed 11.9 → 12.1
Tiny consolation.
Brightwater's walls loomed ahead near dawn—cobalt banners snapping. Trade wagons queued at the eastern gate but city guard recognized Union courier seals, waving us through a side arch. Safe zone music chimed faint heroism.
Inside, we beelined for the Vault Annex—bank security quadruple that of mountain hamlets. We deposited remaining mythril, fees steep but safety priceless. OrbCoin conversion confirmation dinged:
Transfer Initiated → Commonwealth Bank (AUS)
Amount: ₳ 62 073.20
Processing Time: ≤ 3 h
Sixty-two thousand. Add prior transfers, plus savings—it would cover Marco's greed if exchange rates held.
Rowan exhaled. "We made it."
"I made it because you came," I said. Pride warmed chest hotter than Stone-skin burn.
He shrugged, embarrassed. "Students procrastinate essays. Saving a friend is a decent excuse."
We laughed, splitting fatigue rictus.
A bank clerk NPC bowed. "Anything else, honored patrons?"
"Yes," I said, pulse steadying. "Lock a private vault. Contents: Reforged Short Sword."
Rowan blinked. "What?"
"The Black-Wings saw it. If they recognize the engraving, they track us. We travel light."
He smiled tight. "Paranoia keeps hearts beating."
We signed forms.
Server noon. Audit window down to forty-one hours. I logged out for food and to stare at my phone's banking app until the incoming wire lighted green: $62 073.20 AUD AVAILABLE. My breath whooshed. Combined with earlier drafts, I possessed ninety-four grand—Marco's new total plus margin.
I dialed Vince. He picked up, grunted.
"Full balance ready. Meet tonight, same gym. Bring receipt papers."
Pause. "Boss busy."
"No meeting, no money. Your choice."
Line clicked. Maybe I should not taunt men with baseball bats, but adrenaline commanded.
Evening crept. I fried pelmeni for the kids. Anna practiced scales; Mitya catapulted peas. Family life framed the craziness like a still photograph of sanity.
Text buzzed: 8 p.m. sharp. Gym. Come alone. Fine.
I pocketed the certified check, kissed Anna's head, told her I'd be back before breakfast.
The gym fluorescents buzzed like locusts. Marco himself appeared—a lean man in a floral dress shirt, smile sharp enough to shave tungsten. Vince flanked him.
I handed the check. Marco's eyebrows climbed. "Well, Mr. Miner. Quite the treasure chest."
"Debt cleared," I said, voice controlled iron.
He flicked through the contract, scribbled Paid in Full stamp. "Plus ten grand courtesy fee for my time," he reminded.
"Amount includes it."
He tucked paper into folder. "Impressive. Ever consider steady work? Someone with your…resourcefulness could move product for us."
"Not interested."
Vince cracked knuckles. I didn't flinch.
Marco sighed theatrically. "Capitalism's river always flows, my friend. Perhaps you'll swim back."
"Perhaps pigs will orbit Mars," I answered in Russian. He didn't get it.
We shook. His grip was soft—like a snake subtler than its fangs. But contract void; threat null.
Outside, drizzle turned streetlamps into halos. I laughed until my ribs hurt, alone under sodium glow, free.
Freedom lasted three minutes.
Phone pinged—Rowan emergency voice call. I answered. Wind howled through his headset.
"Bad," he gasped. "Ironclad moved tonight. Thirty-man war party controlling Brightwater western road. Hedrum's wagon got hit, Liora barely escaped. They seized five crates—almost two hundred bars."
My stomach iced. "Loss?"
"Market value eight thousand gold. We still have vault stash, but they got enough to recoup Black-Wing fees."
I looked at the check stub still in my hand—useless now except as trophy. Realized Ironclad, not sharks, had become existential threat. They wouldn't stop at a slice; they wanted the whole bakery.
"Where are you?" I asked.
"North watchtower outside city. Guard line holds them off for now, but Dungrim posted new bounty: twenty gold for your head."
Twenty gold. That could finance a mid-level raid group. Hunters would flood.
The night pressed close; drizzle felt like crossbow bolts. I inhaled, exhaled. "Then we finish this. No more defensive drips. Tomorrow we deliver developer audit, clear exploit flag, and plan the endgame. Heart-of-Mountain rumor Gus mentioned—time to out-scale their greed."
Rowan silent a beat. "High-risk, Orefinder."
"You still trust my pathfinding?" I asked, echoing his old phrase.
He laughed, strained. "Rocks tried to kill us; rocks failed."
"Meet at forge dawn," I said. "Bring maps, explosives, and friends who won't rat for twenty gold."
"Understood."
I hung up, rain dampening check paper until ink bled. Debt demons slain, new dragons spawned.
But inside, weight gone—like mythril bars lifted off soul. Family safe. Now I could fight for something bigger than survival: dignity of every worker Ironclad squeezed.
I squared shoulders, marched home past shuttered shops. The Sphere awaited—a colossus of stone and code. Tomorrow we'd burrow into its beating heart, and I wasn't afraid.
Not anymore.