Chapter 21 — Ironclad’s Revenge

Chapter 21 — Ironclad's Revenge

 The capsule seals with a hiss like an angry serpent, and the world of polished steel and humming fans dissolves. Mountain air—impossibly crisp for recycled code—fills my lungs as Flintspar's plaza resolves around me. For five blessed seconds the cobbles lie empty, the forge chimneys yawn lazy smoke spirals, and I foolishly believe today might pass without someone trying to mount my gnome head on their trophy wall.

Lv 18 Gnome Artificer XP 9 220 / 32 000

HP 780 / 780 Stamina 520 / 520

STR 21 AGI 18 CON 25 INT 17 WIS 15 PER 29 LUK 11

Mining 54.8 Surveying 43.2 Blacksmithing 12.4 One-Handed 12.1

Titles Skilled Laborer | Bastion-Builder | Corebreaker Supreme

Status Bounty 2 g (scaling) | Dev Flag C-19

Currency 19 g 57 s 04 c

Debuff Cursed Handsomeness –1 (masked by Shadow Veil)

 Fortune's three-quarter mark gleams in my coin pouch: enough liquified mythril to erase Marco's debt if Ironclad will just look the other way for eight more hours. But the guild has never looked away from anything shiny. They are sharks, and I am dripping hemoglobin in ankle-deep surf.

 Rowan Ash emerges from the teleport glyph beside the inn, hair wind-swept and quiver freshly stocked.

[Party] RowanAsh: «Forge says last conversion cleared. You still good for the Brightwater run?»

 I ping back affirmative, slide the Shadow Veil mask over my face, and cinch the courier straps tighter across my chest. The satchel hugs ribs like an anvil, but it carries only twenty bars—bait-sized. The rest sleeps behind the Brightwater vault's adamantine gates.

 We agreed on a daylight haul for once: public roads, guard patrols, no moonlit skulking. In theory, even Dungrim Ironheart's thugs risk fines if they start a war in an NPC heartland. In theory.

 "Stick to the caravans," Rowan advises as we angle through the north gate. "Guards will make Ironclad think twice." His optimism sounds brittle.

 Outside, the Spinecrest road cuts west through powder-coated pines. NPC farmers lead yak-drawn sleds; apprentice mages debate algebra around a bonfire that floats three centimeters above the snow. The Sphere plays at peace, but chat channels bleed tension.

 Global:

IroncladCrier: "Public safety alert: Gnome exploiter sighted leaving Flintspar. Possible stolen ore. Traveling with longbow accomplice. 20 g bounty—proof of kill."

 Twenty. They doubled it overnight. My stomach knots. Rowan sees the message too; his jaw flexes.

 "Keep walking," I mutter. "If we sprint, they know we're scared."

 We pass between pine trunks dusted silver. I catch my reflection in a frozen stream: a stubby miner in soot-stained leather, goggles crowning my brow like a desperate halo. The image would make a pathetic wanted poster—except it already circulates across half the shard.

 A soft chime signals private whisper:

Marra Greysong: "Told you, handsome. My principals pay faster."

 I block her—again.

 A second whisper arrives not from a person but the System:

[System Notice: Unusual resource-transfer patterns detected. Audit reminder—22 h 12 m to submit diagnostic logs.]

 The admin clock tick-tocks next to Ironclad's bounty ticker; both hands reach for my throat. Focus. One more sale. One more bank transfer, then I can buy enough real dollars to bulldoze Marco's extortion clause. One more—

 Rowan stops dead. "Ahead," he whispers.

 My Ore Sense is on cooldown, but Stone Sense murmurs like distant thunder. Weight displacement—many boots—press into the packed snow beyond the next bend.

 We step off the road, crouch behind a fallen log. Through branches I spot armor plates painted the Ironclad blue-steel gradient, six, seven, nine… a full platoon, standard bearers unfurling the gear-cog sigil. At their center ambles a dwarf in obsidian plate too ornate for mass production: Dungrim Ironheart himself.

 Rowan exhales. "They've never left fortress territory in person."

 "First time for everything," I whisper.

 Dungrim calls a halt. His voice, magically amplified, booms like kettle drums. "Gnomeling! I know you hare in the brush. Present yourself, or we torch every traveler on this route."

 Gasps ripple among the civilians. Guards stiffen, hands on spears—then hesitate, cowed by the glint of legendary gear. Ironclad's lawyers must have bribed every magistrate; no NPC raises a blade.

 Rowan's gaze meets mine. Options: run deeper into woods, risk being hunted for hours; or parley, stall, maybe trade crate for safe passage. But Dungrim doesn't want a deal—he wants a lesson.

 "I'm listening," I shout, stepping onto the road. Rowan curses but follows, arrow nocked low.

 The dwarf's beard is woven with silver rings shaped like pickheads. His grin splits under a battle helm. "Look at you—little digger, swollen with stolen ore. Here's my offer: drop the satchel, bend the knee, confess the cheat, and I only break your legs." Murmurs of laughter from his line.

 "I mined mythril straight," I reply. "Your guild wants monopoly, not justice."

 His eyes gleam. "What's just is what endures. Your claim ends here."

 He flicks two gauntlets. Ironclad casters warp sigils in the air; blades hiss from scabbards. Rowan fires first—a smoke arrow that erupts in blinding gray. I yank a phosphorus charge, slam it to the ground. The snowbank bursts in sparks, buying seconds.

 "Tree line!" Rowan shouts. We sprint, but Ironclad foresaw the route; three levitating shields wall our path. Concussion runes bloom, hurling us backward. My HP gouges by 120.

 I roll, draw the frost sword, slice the heel of a charging berserker. He howls, HP dropping. Rowan drops a trap disc—mechanical caltrop mines shredded from Gus's scrap. Five Ironclad front-liners trip; detonations mar the snow with craters.

 But numbers crush ingenuity. Dungrim alone occupies my world: he strides through smoke like a siege ram, twin war-hammers crackling with magnetite arcs. He smashes my guard; even frost enchantment can't parry kinetic 120 STR.

HP –214 (566 / 780)

Bleed 2 stacks (10 s)

Stun (1.2 s)

 Vision whites out. Rowan yells something unheard under system tinnitus. I gulp a Lesser Coagulate—red haze clears, but I'm still on my knees.

 Dungrim grips my pickaxe—my custom moon-steel spike pulled from side holster when I stumbled. He lifts it into torchlight. "Decent craftsmanship." Then he grips top and shaft, muscles bulging, and snaps it like kindling.

 The crack sounds louder than detonations. A decade of forged upgrades, goodbye. He tosses shards to the mud.

 "You mine no more," he declares.

 Anger overrides fear. I lunge with sword aimed for the gap under his gorget—classic dwarf armor blind spot. He pivots, catches blade with hammer haft, twists. Sword clatters away. His knee drives into my sternum.

HP –188 (378 / 780)

Debuff: Internal Bruising – Stamina Regen –30 % (2 min)

 Rowan skids beside me, knives out, slashing at Dungrim's gauntlet joints. A parry from another elite halberdier knocks him aside.

 "Rowan, run," I rasp.

 "Never."

 The battle collapses into numbers: Ironclad twenty-six, us two. Ranger traps spent; my weapon shattered. Smoke thins, revealing ring of steel. We back toward a frozen creek bed, footing treacherous. Ironclad mages channel frost shards—they want to immobilize, not overkill, so loot packs stay intact.

 Rowan whispers, "Last contingency?"

 "Do it," I say.

 He pulls our sole emergency teleport scroll—Precise Anchor, ten-meter radius, two-second cast. He mutters incantation. Dungrim sees shimmer, roars, barrels forward.

 I step into dwarf's line, raise forearms to block. Hammer blow hits like freight, fractures pop in code physics. TP scroll completes—spiraling light twists around Rowan, around me—until a counter-spell rune detonates above. Their arc-priest cackles. The scroll fizzles. Our escape snapshotted midway; no second copy.

 Dungrim's fist slams again. My HP plunges to double digits. I'm forced to pop Stone-skin draught. Mitigation buys a handful of heartbeats.

 Rowan's arrows thud but cannot pierce shielded priests buffing Dungrim.

 It ends as code always does when DPS disparity crosses threshold: a critical stun, a hammer arc, my world freezes mid-motion.

[You have been slain by Dungrim Ironheart.]

[Durability loss × 3 on equipped items. Mythril Ore × 22 dropped at death location.]

 The death-screen timer appears—twenty seconds until respawn. Through ghost-sight I watch Ironclad swarm Rowan. He downs one last healer with a trick shot that ricochets off ice; then a dozen swords skewer him.

[RowanAsh has died.]

 Ironclad loot timers spin. My phantom hands curl useless. Dungrim grabs my satchel, unbuckles Rowan's. Rare frost sword? Gone. Gus's rune respirator I left at vault, thank heavens.

 Dungrim faces my corpse's translucent outline. "Stay in the dirt, cheat." He toggles public channel:

Ironclad — Dungrim: "World first: Exploit gnome laid low. All mythril rightful property of Ironclad reclaimed. Glory to the guild!"

 Chat erupts. Half the server cheers; half calls BS; dev observer icons blink.

 Respawn timer hits zero.

 I materialize at Flintspar's bind-shrine under yellow lanterns. Respawn sickness chills bones; HP bar half full. My leather coat is cracked; rune slots gray out—armor durability gutted.

 Players at fountain hush, then whispers spread. Someone snaps a screenshot. I force inventory open: coins 1 g 02 s, mythril zero. Even backup healing potions gone—stashed inside the same satchel.

 I feel naked, smaller than level one. But worst is the broken equipment list: boots, gloves, shoulder guards all below critical; the sword shattered and auto-deleted.

 Gus's forge is twelve blocks downhill. Each step clanks like shame. NPC guards glance, then avert gaze—they fear Ironclad political weight, apparently. Posters of my bounty hang bigger now: ELEVEN-POINT FONT CHEATER, 20 G REWARD. An added note says "NOW CONFIRMED: WORLD-EVENT INTERFERENCE."

 Gus opens shop door at my knock. His expression bares every fault line. "Saw the public channel," he says.

 "They took everything." My voice is gravel. "Pickaxe… ore… pride."

 He huffs through mustache. "Pride's renewable. Ore's not. Sit." He drags stool.

 Rowan logs in—same shrine, I imagine—pings party.

RowanAsh: «I'm alive. Inventory wiped. They melted your pick in front of me.»

 Read that again: melted. Dungrim had a mage cast Heat Metal until signature crescent head pooled.

 Gus rests meaty hands on workbench. "We can rebuild gear. But Ironclad's smear is bigger. Forums trending: 'Exploit Orefinder finally punished.' They've posted doctored clips of your Ore Sense floods."

 Of course—they record every skirmish. Edit out their own ambush, splice in admin warnings. Narrative is buyer's market.

 I inhale forge heat; it smells of charcoal and possibility. But the bank vault mythril remains, I remind myself. Ironclad took twenty-two bars, but eighty still locked in Brightwater. Enough to pay loan sharks twice, if conversions land.

 Yet safe transfer is now fantasy. My reputation meter flashes "HATED" with Ironclad, and "SUSPICIOUS" with neutral players. Bounty hunters will smell coin in every crate.

 Rowan enters forge with torn leathers, face ashen. We don't hug; we're too numb. He lays broken bow staves on table. Gus clucks.

 "What's next?" Rowan asks.

 I sit longer, listening to hammer beats from adjacent smithies. Sudden calm settles, like giving up fighting a river and swimming with it instead.

 "They think we're beaten," I say. "So they'll relax guard."

 "Unlikely," Rowan mutters.

 "Enough that they won't expect us deep," I insist. "Past any haul routes. Past their choke points. If they want to strip-mine greedily, we will descend where greed fears—Umbral Depths."

 Gus's brows climb. "The Heart of the Mountain legend?"

 I nod. "If we hit the core vein, no bounty can offset that wealth. And prestige flips narrative: guild of hundreds failed, two miners succeeded."

 Rowan considers, then cracks a tired smile. "You're insane."

 "Miners are geologists with gambling problems," I reply.

 Gus fetches parchment—blueprint cylinder sealed with wax. "Had this ready if you ever grew reckless enough." He unrolls schematic: a clockwork auger capped with mythril teeth. "Will drill through dragonglass. But it needs New-Forge capacitors—and those sit in the Umbral Depths' vault cells."

 "Raid to build the drill to raid the core," Rowan muses. "Recursive stupidity. I'm in."

 Gus passes us each a hammer-sized chunk of dull gray steel. "Titanium alloy. Not flashy, but it swings hard. Consider them loaners until we craft better." Each piece's tooltip: Unbreakable Training Sledge (Uncommon). I sling it reluctantly; swing speed penalty be damned.

 We salvage what potions remain, patch waistband armors. Hedrum messages—Union can loan reinforcements but risk ambush. We decline; stealth beats numbers.

 Before dawn we stand at forge door, heavier than when we left Mythril grotto yet paradoxically lighter: debts clear in real world; only pride and future at stake. But my Ore Sense still flagged; dev audit still ticking; and now entire zone red-names me.

 "Once more into the abyss," Rowan says.

 I check HP, stamina, and intangible stat labeled Resolve. Full.

 We step onto the cobbled street as sun's first code-light paints snow gold. Behind us Gus's anvil rings—three hammer strikes, dwarven blessing for safe return.

 Front of us yawns the north pass to Umbral Depths, where Dungrim's war banners don't yet flap. They will, soon, but maybe not fast enough.

 I clench titanium handle, and a system prompt blinks my silent vow:

Quest Chain Updated: Final Push

Objective: Outsmart Ironclad. Reclaim narrative. Mine the Heart. (0 / 1)

 And for the first time since a broken pick sank into snow, I allow myself a thin, dangerous smile.

Chapter 22 — Stone Dust and Sleepless Skies

 Flintspar's bind-shrine discharged my avatar in a burst of amber motes—and the moment my boots touched the hex-granite tiles, the city square receded into a smear of vertigo. Sound dulled to a tinnitus hiss, vision tunneled around the system prompt still floating above my head:

You have died.

Durability Loss: –65 % (equipped items)

Dropped Items: Mythril Ore × 22, Moon-Steel Pickaxe (Broken), Frost-Runed Short Sword (Broken)

Bounty Status: 20 g — Claimed by Ironclad (partial, +2 g increment)

Current Reputation: HATED (Ironclad), SUSPICIOUS (Neutral players)

Respawn Sickness: –20 % Attributes (18 min)

 No bug in the code could soften the sick gravity of that list. The cold air of Flintspar—always rendered crisp, pine-tinged—now felt rancid on my digital tongue. The fountain gurgled as it always had, yet its crystalline splash mocked my emptiness. I turned from the onlookers' whispering to hide the half-filled HP bar and half-filled soul.

 Gus's forge door banged shut behind me with a furnace-bellow gust. He said nothing, merely pushed a tin cup of lye-sharp dwarven coffee between my shaking gloves. I stared into the tar swirl and tried to remember why I had ever thought pixels could weigh less than real iron.

 Rowan logged in seconds later—same square, same hush of disapproving spectators. He limped into the forge, quiverless, eyes red as bank warning banners. We didn't hug; exhaustion turned our limbs to wax. Instead we sat beside Gus's anvil while the dwarf hammered a rivet through skystone for a client who would never know our tragedy had stained the metal.

 "I keep replaying the moment they snapped your pick," Rowan croaked. "I wanted to do something—anything."

 "You did," I muttered, fingering the splintered haft still lodged in inventory as a useless gray icon. "You bled with me. That counts."

 The words tasted like soot. Rowan opened his mouth to argue—then the forge bell clanged thrice: a courier imp shoved through the half-door, bright-red system sash proclaiming Urgent External Message. Gus raised a brow and handed me the envelope.

 Real-world designation. Not in-game mail.

 I slit it with a trembling finger. Royal North Shore Hospital letterhead, the stark blue cross stamped with emergency priority. Inside, a single printed sentence in bureaucratic English: "Patient Viktor Kozlov admitted following assault—request next of kin contact immediately."

 Uncle Viktor. The uncle who had promised he was "working something on the side" to lessen my burden, the uncle who taught me to tie reef knots and to whistle the Soviet space-anthem on New Year's. Beaten, maybe over the same debt I had almost—almost—slain.

 My vision flashed red, HUD-style, though the screen now was my apartment ceiling as real-world ceiling paint peeled after years of neglected rent. Because the next thing I knew I had ripped the VR harness off, cables flailing like severed arteries, and I was lying on the thin mattress gasping, sweat soaking cotton.

 *

Real Night—03:12 AEST

 Sydney's predawn humidity pressed its damp palm to my face. The room smelled of stale toast and solder resin from Mitya's half-finished robot. Across the hall Anna snored faintly, violin case propped like a sentinel beside her desk. I should have let her sleep. Instead I stumbled to her doorway, guilt driving nails under my skin.

 She blinked awake instantly—kid reflexes honed by months of fear—and asked what was wrong. I told her Uncle Viktor had…had a fall. A partial truth to save her from mafia spirals. When her lower lip quivered I forced a smile, promised everything would be okay.

 She left me tea steeping on the stove, because that is what eleven-year-old sisters do for brothers who try to be titans and end up ghosts.

 *

Hospital—04:12

 A nurse with clipped vowels explained Viktor's injuries: two cracked ribs, fractured ulna, mild concussion. "Mugging," she suggested, "though he keeps muttering about 'interest.'" They'd found him behind a bottle-shop near Parramatta Road, bleeding onto torn recycling bins.

 He lay pale against the starched white. I touched his hand through antiseptic-smelling sheets; he half-opened eyes like tarnished coins, tried to grin. "Tried to speed things up, Lyosha," he whispered in our mother tongue. "Tried to sell some old watches. Bad buyers."

 I told him to rest. Inside, lava welled. Marco's extension clause, Ironclad's theft—two heads of the same hydra. And me, a would-be Hercules, had lost the club.

 *

Home again—06:30

 Dawn light yellowed the kitchen linoleum. I brewed more coffee than kidneys should allow, and stared at the bank app. Balance: A$31 274. Half drained by my earlier payoff, still more than any student my age should hold—but not enough to buy new bones for Viktor or hire bodyguards.

 Rowan's message pinged on my phone: "Brother, you okay IRL?"

 I thumb-typed the basics. He sent back a single line that punched through dawn haze:

"Miners don't quit when the vein runs shallow."

 I almost threw the phone. Then I noticed the offline notification from Gus I'd missed while sprinting to the hospital. A voice attachment: the dwarf's rumble softer than I'd ever heard.

 "Kid, every tunnel has a point it swallows more light than your lamp can throw. That's not failure. That's the bend before the crystal pocket. Eat, sleep, sharpen the dull edge. You'll dig again."

 I played it twice, tears carving hot rivers.

 *

Daylight spilled. Mitya shuffled in, LEGO gears in hair. Anna followed, hugging a cracked cereal bowl like a peace offering.

 "I saw the hospital folder," she whispered. "Uncle will be okay?"

 "With rest," I said.

 She studied my hollow cheeks. "Are you okay?"

 I started to answer yes, but something warped inside—honesty forced out like ore under hydraulic press. "No," I admitted. "I lost too much. It might get worse before better."

 Mitya placed the LEGO catapult on the table and pushed it toward me. "Attack the bad guys," he declared. A marshmallow lobbed, bounced off my forehead, landed in the coffee mug. The absurdity sliced tension—I laughed until belly cramped.

 Anna reached across to wipe foam from eyebrow. "Just come back safe," she said, echoing a line she must have rehearsed in dreams.

 I promised. But promises weighed nothing without coin and courage. The coin sat locked behind Brightwater vault walls; the courage had to be mined anew.

 *

Capsule—10:00

 Straps sucked against shoulders again, the faint chemical strawberry of VR disinfectant filling sinuses. The last thing I did before sealing the lid was set a phone alarm ninety minutes later: hospital visiting hours. New rule: real life cannot bleed to zero HP.

 *

Respawn debuff faded as the forge's heat embraced me. Gus greeted me with a plate of imaginary rye bread—"NPC comfort food," he joked—and led me to the side chamber few players ever saw: Gus's reliquary of half-finished prototypes.

 Racks of eccentric contraptions lined brick walls: corkscrew drills powered by hanging counterweights, steam pistons etched with illusions, even a miniature walking furnace that belched sparks like a drunken dragon. In the far corner stood a mannequin wearing dull steel full-plate—no embellishments, no glow. Plain, grim, functional.

 "Salvage armour," Gus explained. "Built for dwarven earthquake rescue teams. Heavy, but each plate overlaps double. Won't win style contests."

 He helped fit me. The cuirass sat like a cold oath on my shoulders. The helmet left only a T-shaped slit—good; anonymity now protected more than any rune.

 Rowan arrived wearing identical kit—two steel moles prepped for deep-core burrowing.

 "New plan," I said, voice echoing inside helm. "We disappear from surface drama. Audit or no audit, we spelunk until problems can't breathe our air."

 Gus rolled open a draughting cabinet, unfurled aged vellum. The Heart-Drill blueprint glistened with mythril ink: layered auger blades, capacitor sockets, rotating stabilizer fins like petals on a mechanized orchid.

 "Capacitors hide in New-Forge Depot," he said, tapping map coordinates deep in the Umbral Depths—deeper than any forum thread confirmed. "Dungeon rated impossible for five-man raids. Lava mazes, gravity shears."

 Rowan shrugged. "Rates impossible, but test sample: us."

 I felt a grin form unseen behind iron. "We'll need allies who won't sell us for twenty-gold head checks."

 Messages went out to Hedrum, Liora, and a quiet jeweler named Zara who'd once patched my armor for free because she hated Ironclad taxes. Replies trickled: Hedrum—"Ale kegs on hold, pick swinging." Liora—"Fine, but I'm brewing tunnel-light potions first." Zara—"Will craft if paid in ore shards and union protection." Small team, but hearts tough.

 *

Audit Countdown—14 h

 In a guildless annex behind the Miners' Guild hall, I sat before a rune-etched console shaped like a confession booth. The interface demanded diagnostic logs for Ore Sense anomalies. My finger hovered over SUBMIT.

 Option A: full unedited logs—proof my perk synergy with Stone Sense spiked telemetry, not cheating. Could exonerate reputation if devs go public… or supply Ironclad ammo if devs leak.

 Option B: refuse, trigger suspension mid-expedition.

 I chose a reckless Option C: attach raw logs plus video of Dungrim smashing the pick and editing his propaganda. I inserted a twenty-second voiceover: "If extreme resource detection is illegal, clarify. Otherwise, prosecute guild harassment." Then hit SEND.

 The console glowed green: "Submission accepted—review pending." A roll of weighted dice, cast beyond my reach.

 *

Night again—18:00 Server Time

 Flintspar's wrapper of fear thickened; bounty hunters paced streets like wolves sniffing a weakened scent. Our new plate armor disguised us as dwarven journeymen—height illusion spells compressed stature further. Only PER stat noise could betray us; Ore Sense stayed silent, deliberately offline.

 We rendezvoused with Liora outside the north pass. She wore violet cloth over chain, carrying vials that fizzed gloom-blue.

 "These glowworms cling to ceilings," she said, shaking glass. "Stick them overhead, they eat darkness." She produced three bundles of scrolls—stone-shape, emergency piton conjures, one forbidden fissile rune she refused to explain.

 Hedrum waddled up last, dragging two casks labelled "Boom Juice." We didn't ask.

 Small talk nonexistent; rationale unspoken. Ironclad had scaled to politics; we would scale to myth.

 The ascent to the pass felt wrong without the click of mythril pick at my belt. I touched the empty hook, inhaled cold.

 "Next pick you swing will be forged from the Heart," Rowan whispered.

 "Or my grave marker," I answered. We both chuckled because gallows humor cost fewer hit points than fear.

 *

Umbral Depths Mouth—Position 0

 The entrance resembled a volcano's throat petrified mid-eruption. Black basalt ribs curved inward, dripped with obsidian stalactites that hummed faint resonance. Gravity warped such that standing upright meant leaning thirty degrees toward western horizon. We roped ourselves like alpinists, boots magnetized to metal rivets.

 System popped:

Warning: Zone Difficulty — Cataclysmic

Recommended Party: 8–10 (Level 35+)

First-Entry Bonus Active (No party record found) — +10 % XP / Loot

 We were level 18–22, party of five. Excellent odds—for a Greek tragedy.

 But push a miner against a wall and he'll dig through it.

 *

 The first twelve hours of descent blurred into montage: rapelling across shimmering fault lines, tiptoeing past geothermal vents venting neon-green gas that peeled HP in silent ticks, hacking through webs spun by subterranean arachnids the size of motorcycles. Every challenge stole resources—potion here, piton there—yet morale steadied. We were beneath the rumor zone: no bounty hunters, no world chat broadcasts. Down here only stone judged us, and stone is stern but fair.

 At -3 000 m a rotted gear bridge spanned a chasm full of liquid shadow—oil? void water? The physics engine flagged "non-Newtonean hazard." I volunteered to cross first, hammer slung like a priest's censer. Midway the planks groaned; notifications flared: Structural Integrity 8 %. Hedrum hurled a chain, Rowan anchored—seconds before a board shattered under my greaves. I dangled above anti-light that wanted to unwrite existence. They hauled me up; I lost only dignity and 20 durability on boots.

 Checkpoint alcoves provided buff shrines. We knelt at an oxidized statue of some unnamed Sphere architect, offering coppers; it granted Endurance +5 % (60 min). Small mercies.

 *

Audit Clock—00:45

 Deep in a canted tunnel of marbled granite we stopped to rest. Liora passed out crumbly ration bars; I chewed tasteless calories while scrolling admin inbox. No verdict yet—"Under Review." Might as well wait for tectonic plates to email.

 Hedrum unscrewed a cask cap, offered swig; we declined. He drank anyway, belched seismic.

 Rowan traced finger along tunnel wall. "Veins thin," he whispered. "Ironclad may bypass this route—they hate marginal yield."

 "Good," I said. "Scarcity suits us."

 He tapped ore map overlay. "Capacitor depot sits below the lava labyrinth. No sign they flagged it."

 "Then we flag it first."

 *

Real-World Alarm—07:30 AEST

 Capsule reminded me of hospital hours. I left avatar on autopilot pray-pose at small shrine and logged out, body screaming protest. Shower, shirt, train. The day blurred between hospital fluorescent flicker and Viktor's morphine breaths. He tried to laugh but coughed blood; I squeezed his shoulder and promised again. Lies or faith—hard to tell.

 I returned ten hours later, nine minutes before forced-logout timer would kick me from the dungeon. Gloves slid on like guillotines; the Sphere rushed up once more.

 *

Audit Timer: 00:00

System: Submission accepted, exploit flag status — Cleared.

New Title Unlocked: "Field Research Contributor."

Perk Adjustment: Ore Sense cooldown normalized (60 s); detection radius reduced 10 % for fairness. Unique variant granted exclusively to user.

 I exhaled so hard I startled the party. The devs had not only spared me, they'd vindicated me. Bounty propaganda now lacked admin teeth.

 "Means Ironclad's cheat claim lost steam," Rowan said, a grin in his voice.

 "Means we dig," I replied, heart hammering hope.

 *

Lava Labyrinth—Entry

 Imagine an ant farm sculpted by Bosch: rivers of white-orange magma coiled through glass tunnels, walls breathing heat distortions. Platforms scaled vertical walls as gravity re-oriented on every switchback. We donned Gus's respirators; visor glass fogged, runes hiss-filtered sulfur.

 Bridge one collapsed under Liora but anchor rope saved her. Hedrum used his keg to blast a cooling crust over lava, creating stepping-stones glowing cherry. We balanced on them like drunk acrobats, each misstep promising respawn 3 000 m above.

 Halfway across, Rowan hissed: "Contacts, twelve o'clock."

 Red nametags—Ironclad vanguard. Only five, but high levels, scouts we had bested in Brightwater maybe reclaimed? They hadn't expected rival party in the depths. Neither did we. Both sides froze.

 I raised empty palms—negotiation attempt. Their captain smirked, cast Silence field. Conversation dead; steel spoke.

 Fight burned 140 seconds. Our heavier armor blunted first volley; Liora's glowworms blinded; Rowan exploited vertical axes, firing gravity-curved arrows; Hedrum's sledge sent two into magma with one outrageously lucky backswing. When dust settled we looted capacitors—two already in their packs. Fate's gift.

 System ping: "Ironclad Scout Party Q-07 defeated by Companions of the Core." Server broadcast in small-font—the first line of good press since bounty. Chat exploded: some amazed we lived, some crying dev favoritism. Let them bark.

 Hedrum danced a sloppy jig on a cooling basalt floe. "Down and down the snobs do drown!"

 We pulled him onwards.

 *

New-Forge Depot—-4 780 m

 A vault door two stories tall barred progress, gears fused with centuries of rust. Engraved plaque read: Fabrication Annex—Authorized Operators Only. My pulse thudded above helmet clang.

 "I brought the fissile rune," Liora whispered. "But door might take half the cavern with it."

 "Better pick the lock," Rowan said.

 I studied hinges—complex tumbler arrays, stone heart seam. Ore Sense pinged weak copper, indicating integral mechanical guts. Too delicate for explosions. Then brain lit: "Stone-shape scroll," I reminded Liora.

 We traced keyhole circumference, whispered the incantation; rock flowed like wax, forming a small aperture we could crawl through. Inside lay halls of decommissioned assembly lines. Crates of capacitor casings, each etched with lightning glyphs. Power crystals dull but waiting.

 We loaded eight into packs; auger needed only six, backups wise. Encumbrance soared but hearts soared more.

Quest Update: Heart-Drill Materials 6 / 6

Optional: Spare Capacitors 2 / 4

 Rowan checked clock. "Server night soon. Ironclad may send another wave."

 I hefted pack. "Then we vanish deeper. Drill site first, then Heart."

 *

Rest Vault—-5 000 m

 Liora mixed potion that tasted like burnt cinnamon; buffed Stamina +30 % for hour. We sat in circle; no one spoke until Hedrum burped.

 "Remember contract quarry weeks ago?" he mused. "Ironclad lazy, we laughed. Didn't imagine this path."

 "Paths are mined, not mapped," I said.

 Rowan chuckled. "Philosopher gnome, quoting dwarven proverbs."

 Gus—not physically present—spoke through party comm: he'd received audit news, forging drill components, proud of us.

 I thought of Viktor sleeping under antiseptic glare, and Anna practicing violin scales that trickled through apartment wall cracks. Victory here had to echo there—or nothing meant anything.

 *

Real-World Morning—05:45

 Capsule offline for mandatory hydration. I sipped electrolyte packet, eyes burning. News feed headline: "VR Loan Shark Assault Under Investigation—Victim Claims Debt Tactics Escalating as Digital Economies Boom." No names, but I felt chill: Viktor's story hitting mainstream could draw cops—or Marco's revenge.

 I texted detective contact from uni security internship days, gave anonymous tip linking Marco to attack. Small gambles.

 Then I closed apartment door, whispered to siblings still dreaming, and drowned again in cyber-stone.

 *

Game—Creep of Predawn

 Gus's portable forge flickered in subterranean alcove. Capacitors slotted into drill chassis like gems into a crown; mythril gears meshed with tungsten. Party interface displayed crafting progress bar—agonizingly slow five minutes.

 Minute three: seismic tremor rattled stalactites. Rowan's PER flashed yellow. Ore Sense surged—massive signatures ascending corridor: Ironclad main force? No; creatures. Stone elementals roused by forging resonance.

 Twenty of them, each two meters of basalt muscle, glyph eyes glowing.

 "Hold them," I barked, "forge can't abort."

 Hedrum and Rowan formed wall; Liora lobbed quake vials that cracked golem ankles. I toggled Stone-skin, charged. Sledgehammer met granite; sparks flew. HP dipped, but armour held.

 Timer dinged: Heart-Drill Complete. Gus's hologram smiled.

 We grabbed the shining auger; elementals backpedaled as if sensing predator tool.

 "Time to puncture destiny," Rowan panted.

 *

Audit Epilogue

 Server broadcast flared just before we left depot:

DevCom: "Player Orefinder cleared of exploit allegations. Any harassment citing C-19 will be treated as ToS violation."

 Ironclad's propaganda deflated in live chat like a breached bellows. Some players posted apologies, some demanded bounties rescinded. Dungrim silent.

 I saved the message screenshot. Proof for Anna that honesty sometimes bends but eventually refracts light.

 *

Ascending scales of code violins, we marched deeper. For hours the only sound was crunch of boots and occasional drip of quartz dew. My heavy heart felt half a kilo lighter each kilometre. The ordeal still towered ahead—the Core Guardian, Dungrim's vengeance, the uncertain climb back to daylight—but for the first time in three days the slope of despair reversed.

 I pinged Viktor's hospital feed; remote monitor app showed stable vitals.

 I pinged Anna; she texted three emoji violins.

 I pinged Gus; he responded with ASCII pickaxe and the word "DIG."

 I lifted the Heart-Drill onto my shoulder, steel plates grinding. Rock before us glimmered faint cyan, as if the Sphere's nucleus breathed just beyond.

 I whispered a prayer—not to gods but to geology: grant me fault lines.

 Then we stepped into blackness alive with possibility, and the tunnel swallowed our torchlight the way my lungs swallowed courage—deep, ragged, relentless.

Chapter 23 — Blueprints and Blood Oaths

 Flintspar slept under a violet-gray dawn when I stepped from Gus's workshop, plate boots ringing on frost-slick cobbles. Behind me, the reliquary door sealed with a hiss of vacuum grease—the Heart-Drill safely crated in the dwarf's freight golem, every capacitor socket shining like bottled lightning. Forty-eight hours ago Ironclad had shattered my pick, my pride, and a month of savings. Tonight I carried the blueprint for punching straight through their monopoly.

 Rowan Ash lounged against a lamppost, cloak pulled tight against mountain wind. He raised a tin mug in salute. "The doctor says my idiot levels are rising," he murmured. "Prescription: one suicidal expedition."

 "Da," I said. "Take twice daily until guild oppression subsides."

 He laughed, but I saw tension in the set of his shoulders. Ironclad's bounty still burned over our heads—twenty gold to any hunter who could deliver my skull. Even with the developer bulletin clearing the exploit flag, rumors spread faster than facts. Somewhere in the alley shadows, a low-level rogue probably livestreamed us for scrap coin. Let them. By the time Dungrim scrolled through that footage, I intended to be kilometres beneath his reach.

 We walked the back streets to the Union yard, avoiding main plazas where wanted posters fluttered. Frost bit through plate seams; a kerosene lantern guttered overhead, painting iron rails orange. With every step the Heart-Drill crate thunked in the golem's belly—clockwork pistons puff-puff-puff like a locomotive heartbeat. Our big gamble had its own pulse now, and it refused to let me forget the stakes: one malfunction underground could vaporize us, bankrupt my family, and hand Ironclad the core on a silver sustain-buffer.

 A system whisper pinged.

[Union] HedrumRockbarrel: Gatehouse clear. Sky's as empty as my keg. Move fast.

 The yard gates opened, revealing Hedrum, barrels for biceps, grease smeared on his beard like wartime camouflage. Liora Greenthorn perched atop a stack of zinc ingots, stirring glowworm tonic with a silver spoon. Beside her stood Zara the jeweler, neat bun, eyes sharper than her gem saw. Five of us total, counting Gus's remote-piloted forge golem—enough to staff a tavern booth, no more.

 Rowan spread a parchment map across a cargo crate. "We're here," he said, tapping a red-ink X at the mountain foot. "Ironclad's last known drill team broke ground here—" a second mark "—but their chatter suggests they stalled at a gravitational shear three clicks south." He looked at me. "Our window before they reroute is slim."

 I unrolled Gus's vellum alongside, revealing cross-section diagrams of the Umbral Depths: stacked caverns, magma arteries, derelict New-Forge depots. At the center, drawn in shimmering mythril ink, a stylized heart pulsed between concentric strata.

 "Six stages," I said. "Stage one: infiltrate old Goat-Spine switchyard, bypass Ironclad's forward scouts. Stage two: drop to −5 000 metres along abandoned ore chute C-12. Stage three: set Heart-Drill foundation at the dragonglass shelf. After that…" I tapped the twinkling heart. "We improvise."

 Liora snorted. "Improvisation is an alchemy term for 'kaboom.'"

 Hedrum thumped the crate. "Then let's pray to the forge gods for steady hands." He produced a flask, sniffed, frowned. "Empty already? Must be a bug."

 Zara ignored the banter, fitting crystal optics to a brass spyglass. "Newsflash," she said, voice soft. "Ironclad posted a sub-bounty: ten gold for proof the gnome's perk is still active, plus an artifact bonus."

 Rowan cursed. I simply sighed. "They'll keep moving goalposts until we uproot the stadium."

 "Then we uproot," Hedrum rumbled.

 I reached into my satchel, drew out five iron rings linked by a red cord. "Gnome custom," I lied—it was something I invented during last night's insomnia, but the ritual felt necessary. "We each take one. If one breaks, the rest know someone's down."

 We clasped rings, pulling until cord snapped into equal lengths. Tiny sparks leapt between links; a party buff flickered overhead:

Bond of the Deep – Party members share +3% Mining, +3% Defense while within 50 m.

Duration: Until quest completion or death.

 Minor numbers, but morale doubled anyway.

 System window bloomed:

Quest Chain Updated: Heart of the Mountain (Epic)

Stage 1 Objective: Reach Dragonglass Shelf.

Party Members: Orefinder, RowanAsh, HedrumRockbarrel, LioraGreenthorn, ZaraCrystalcut.

Recommended Level: 30+

Failure Consequence: Permanent loss of Heart-Drill prototype.

 I was level eighteen. Rowan twenty. The rest hovered low twenties. Recommended be damned.

 We moved.

 * * *

 Goat-Spine switchyard crouched on a cliff like a rusted scorpion: crisscross rails suspended over abyssal fog, cranes petrified mid-swing, cargo carts fossilised in ice. The air smelled of ozone and stale diesel. Gravity here leaned thirty degrees sideways, so we walked on what felt like a wall. Every fourth step a faint hum vibrated through boots—the Sphere's ancient field generators fighting entropy.

 Rowan scouted ahead, cloak billowing uphill. A chat whisper fluttered:

[Party] RowanAsh: Two Ironclad sentries by the office tower. Level 28. Probably bored.

 I toggled Surveyor's Eye. The HUD painted silhouettes behind corrugated iron: dwarf warrior, human priest, both flagged hostile. My ore overlays glittered faintly—low-grade magnetite, worthless. Good; no reason for them to stay long.

 Liora uncorked a vial, releasing a swarm of phosphorescent gnats that drifted toward the sentries. When the warriors swatted at the harmless lights, Zara flicked her wrist. A slender wire snapped; the nearest crane's brake lever popped free. Two-ton hook slammed into a rail, sparks spraying like fireworks. The noise swallowed their curses.

 In the chaos we slipped past, golem trundling on silent rubber treads. Stage one, ghosted.

 Beyond the switchyard an iron chute plunged into darkness: ore conveyor line C-12, long offline. We secured climbing lines to bolted rings, clipped harnesses.

 Rowan peered into the shaft. "Negative pressure. Means real depth."

 Hedrum smiled. "Pressure equalises at the pub, lads."

 "One step at a time," I muttered, and we rappelled.

 Wind rushed upward, screaming through broken grates. Five minutes down, the last scrap of surface starlight died. Liora's glowworms clung to our helmets, casting green halos. The chute widened, then terminated in a jagged opening overlooking a colossal cavern—stone pillars the size of skyscrapers, bats swirling in constellations.

 Altitude: −3 100 m.

 UI ping:

Zone: Umbral Depths – Twilight Arch. 

Environmental Modifier: Visibility –60 %, Gravity Vector Anomalous (tilt 15° west). 

Monsters Detected: Vermin (low), Echo Drakes (moderate), Stone Elemental (rare).

 A moderate rumble vibrated behind us as the golem leveraged the crate through the exit. I keyed private comm to Gus, who remote-piloted via scry-lens.

Orefinder: "Hardware intact?"

Gus: "Readings nominal. Keep her level, lad."

 Rowan pointed to a staircase spiralling around a stalactite. "That leads to depot quarter. Another 1 800 metres."

 We moved single file, eyes on sonar pips. Halfway down, a droning roar echoed—Echo Drake flock, returning to roost. Their sonar pulses mapped the cavern in ghostly arcs.

 Liora whispered, "If they see the golem—"

 "Distraction route," I said. I pulled a tallow torch from my belt, lit it, and hurled it across the cavern. Flames arced, landing on a guano shelf. The heat signature flared; drakes banked toward the glow, screeching. We crept on.

 At the depot quarter we found rows of mine-carts shrivelled by rust, each stamped with the crest of Khaz Goral circa update 1.4. Hedrum lovingly pried a copper rivet loose. "Vintage," he said.

 But my Ore Sense tingled—no, not ore, something else: pulsing heat behind a stone heap. I signalled halt, crawled forward. Beneath the rubble a brass gearbox larger than a wagon clicked faintly—an auto-loader core still running.

 "Free power source," I whispered. "Could charge the Heart-Drill capacitors quicker."

 Rowan frowned. "Or explode."

 "I like those odds." We cleared debris, revealing energy coils glowing cerulean. I connected a mithril cable from the drill crate to the terminal. UI bar filled: 17 %… 24 %…

 Then a deeper rumble rolled through the depot. Earthquake? No—the brass gears accelerated; gauges spiked red.

 "Abort!" Zara cried.

 Too late. A surge arrester blew; blue plasma arced along the cable into the crate. The golem seized, lights flickering. Capacitor charge soared: 55 %… 70 %… 110 %—overload threshold.

 I yanked the plug; sparks charred my gauntlet.

Warning: Capacitor Bank Over-Saturated – Stability 78 %.

 Rowan doused cable with ice arrow; steam whooshed. The crate smoked but held.

 Hedrum exhaled. "That's one way to top the tank."

 I checked readings—stability dropping slowly, but safe enough if we didn't jostle.

 "Let's not do that again," Liora said, voice trembling.

 We pressed on toward dragonglass shelf access tunnels. Two more kilometres, one world of hazards.

 * * *

 Altitude: −4 800 m. Temperature: 43 °C.

 Air tasted like a battery leak. Crystalline obsidian—dragonglass—studded tunnel walls, reflecting our torchlight in fractured rainbows. Every footstep rang like a bell, music for a funeral procession.

 Zara consulted her spyglass. "Seismic readings ahead. Could be lava tubes."

 Rowan held up a hand; we halted. Far off, steel clanged against stone. He mouthed: Ironclad.

 I doused torch; HUD switched to low-light. Through the shimmering heat I saw dancing silhouettes: a squad of eight, hauling wheeled sleds loaded with ore sacks. Their tabards bore the gear-and-hammer sigil, trimmed in obsidian thread—elite logistics unit.

 They had discovered a minor mythril pocket, it seemed, but more importantly, they blocked our passage.

 Rowan pulled an arrow, but I shook my head. "Silent," I mouthed. I scanned the tunnels—dragonglass spires everywhere; unstable.

 Liora caught my thought. She uncorked a vial, releasing acid vapor that floated like cotton. A tiny spark from Hedrum's tinderbox drifted into the cloud—whump.

 The spire nearest the Ironclad sled shattered, shards ricocheting. Soldiers panicked. One dropped a torch; flames licked spilled dragonglass dust—an exothermic reaction flashed white-hot.

 We slipped through side fissure while screams echoed. My moral compass winced, but we'd drawn no blood; the cavern did the work.

 Beyond, the tunnel opened onto a vast ledge overlooking an incandescent river: molten rock pulsing like dragon veins. Here the shelf arced downward—a perfect staging ground.

 System prompt chimed:

You have reached Dragonglass Shelf – Core Approach.

Stage 1 Complete. Stage 2 Objective: Deploy Heart-Drill and penetrate outer mantle (0 / 1).

 I knelt, unclasped crate latches. Inside, the Heart-Drill gleamed—spiral blades of mythril-titanium alloy, capacitor coils buzzing with stolen charge. Gus's hologram flickered beside it.

 "Insert anchor rods first," he instructed. "Then engage stabilizers, clockwise quarter-turn. Anything else and you dig your own grave, lad."

 We assembled tripod legs, belt-fed cooling lines, rune anchors hammered deep into basalt. Zara calibrated alignment with star-sapphire lenses; Rowan covered perimeters, arrow ready.

 At last, I grasped the ignition lever. My hands trembled inside gauntlets. Everything—Anna's violin lessons, Mitya's catapult dreams, Uncle Viktor's hospital beeps—balanced on this lever.

 "Ready," I said.

 "Ready," the party echoed.

 I pulled.

 The ground shook as drill teeth bit stone, screeching. Capacitors dumped charge—blue arcs raced the barrel. HUD displayed core pressure metrics rising. Stone vapor vented through ducts, glowing red.

 Rowan shouted status:

Penetration Depth: 3 m… 7 m… 12 m

Mantle Integrity: 92 %

Stability: 76 %

 Liora fed coolant; steam hissed. Hedrum tightened anchor bolts, veins bulging. Zara monitored quakes, calling out micro-seismic spikes.

 Twenty metres in, an alarming ping:

Alert: Rock Composition Change – Dragonglass → Andesite (density +40 %)

Drill Torque Overload: 95 %

 If the bit seized, the feedback would shatter capacitors. I slammed lever into override, channeling surplus energy to stabilization fins. The drill whined but kept digging.

 Rowan's eyes widened. "Look."

 Cracks spiderwebbed across the escarpment—glowing cyan lines. The rock wasn't just andesite; it housed mana conduits.

 Zara whispered, "We're breaching the Sphere's old power lattice."

 One more metre. The drill suddenly lurched, then plunged as resistance vanished. Flames guttered; machine hummed smoothly.

Penetration Depth: 25 m – Access Tunnel Established.

Stability: 64 % (steady)

 I disengaged drive. The bit retracted, steam billowing around us. A narrow shaft now yawned, rim glowing pale blue.

 System announced:

Heart-Drill successful. Hidden passage to Core Sector unlocked.

Temporal instance created: First-Finder bonus XP +12 000.

Unique Title earned: "Sphere Delver (Provisional)."

 Experience rushed in: my level meter leapt—18 → 19 → 20. Attributes ticked upward: +2 STR, +1 CON, +1 PER. Rowan dinged to 21; others gained similarly. Party whooped like kids on New Year's.

 But the celebration cut short when my Ore Sense exploded—every nerve alight. Below us, maybe two hundred metres, raw energy pulsed, enough mythril signature to buy city blocks. But another echo overlay in hot red: life signs, dozens, ascending.

 Ironclad's main force, drawn by seismic anomalies.

 Rowan met my gaze. "They'll be here in minutes."

 "Then we move now," I replied. "No more stealth. We finish what we started."

 We secured ropes into shaft. First went Hedrum—he insisted, claiming dwarves bounce better. Liora followed, then Zara, Rowan, and lastly me, sealing drill aperture with quick-stone resin to stall pursuers.

 Down the shaft we descended, heat rising, the glow intensifying to daybreak hues. Midway, system lights dimmed—server allocating us to a separate core instance. My breathing steadied; outside noise fell away. For a heartbeat it was just us and the Sphere's heartbeat, thrumming ancient lullabies.

 At base, the tunnel widened into a vault of calcite and glass, walls carved with runes older than factions. In the center hovered an obelisk of translucent crystal, as tall as Flintspar's clock tower, heart pulsing with molten starlight. Rivers of mythril streamed through cracks, freezing in mid-air like silver lightning.

 I stumbled, awestruck. HUD text crawled:

Location Discovered: Anterior Core Nexus – Untouched since Construction Cycle 0.

World-First Discovery Bonus: +15 000 XP | Reputation +100 (All Scholar Factions)

Resource Node: Pristine Mythril Crystal – 98 % purity

Warning: Guardian Integrity Seal 0 / 3 compromised. Sentinel Activation Imminent.

 Guardian. The legend Gus whispered, the boss Ironclad coveted.

 Rowan breathed, "We're the first players here."

 "First," Zara corrected, "but not alone."

 Behind us, rope lines jerked. Ironclad helmets crested the shaft mouth, warhammers glinting.

 I raised my makeshift titanium sledge, heart hammering to match.

 "Positions," I said. "Remember the plan: let greed be their downfall. Use terrain. No heroes, only workers."

 Rowan notched an arrow; Hedrum hefted keg bombs; Liora uncorked vials; Zara traced sigils into stone.

 Above, Dungrim's voice echoed down the shaft, triumph dripping. "You've dug your grave, gnomeling. I'll bury you in it."

 I swallowed fear. "Sorry, Dungrim," I whispered to myself. "This mine unionised."

 In the obelisk's reflection I saw our ragtag line of miners, alchemists, archers—blue-collar heroes about to face a mountain of steel. And for the first time since I'd stepped into Endless Worlds, I felt not like a debtor clawing at slate, but a craftsman shaping destiny.

 When the first Ironclad boot hit the crystal floor, I swung.

Chapter 24 — Descent into Darkness

Flintspar's telegram towers were still relaying Dungrim's bounty posters when I dropped through the Heart-Drill shaft and landed on crystal sand that sang under my boots. The moment my soles touched, the tunnel seal above puckered shut—quick-stone resin hardening to a matte plug. No turning back; if Ironclad wanted us, they'd have to chew through twenty-five metres of warded dragonglass first.

Rowan clapped dust from his gloves. "Well, gnomeling," he said, voice echoing off calcite ribs, "welcome to the point of no refunds."

"Refunds are for beta testers." I tapped the titanium sledge across my shoulders. "We're overtime employees now."

System icons glittered across my HUD, parsing what lay ahead:

Zone: Umbral Depths — Lower Mantle Approach

Lighting: Bioluminescent (13 %)

Air Quality: Marginal — Trace sulfur dioxide

Ambient Mana: 142 ppm (high)

Local Threats: Subterranean bats, mana-wrought elementals, hostile players

Hedrum slung a keg bomb against his hip. "Air's good enough," he grunted. "Tastes like mama's sauna after schnapps."

Liora, perched on a ridge of quartz, uncorked a jar. Glow-worms swarmed the ceiling, painting emerald constellations. Zara adjusted her spyglass, torchlight refracting into prism shards. For a heartbeat the cavern looked like a cathedral built by dragons—vaulted, endless, resonant with the hush of deep stone.

Then the silence snapped.

THOOM—THOOM—THOOM.

Echoes climbed the shaft above: Ironclad sappers applying rune-hammers to our seal. Vibrations cascaded like a drumroll promising an execution.

Rowan tilted his head. "Ten minutes before they breach."

"Then we treat ten minutes like a shift's wage," I said. "Move."

We threaded a maze of fissures that stank of copper blood. Every corridor sloped irregularly—gravity skewing fifteen degrees at whim—so we walked soles flat to walls, helmets scraping angled ceilings. The map Gus etched on vellum matched maybe one in five forks; the rest must have shifted after the Sphere's last tectonic patch. Each divergence forced a quick micro-choice between speed and safety—Osadchuk's classic grind calculus. Profit vs risk, razors-edge. Not the time for lectures; I chose whichever path felt cooler on the cheek, betting airflow meant larger chambers and fewer dead ends.

The gamble paid after two kilometres. We spilled into a grotto the size of a football stadium, floor glazed with obsidian, walls veined by pulsing aqua circuits—ancient power conduits still beating like arteries.

A single UI thread winked:

Hidden Landmark Discovered!

Name: Torsion-Gear Gallery

Explorer Bonus: +3 000 XP

Environmental Effect: -20 % Stamina Drain while within gallery bounds

Level notifications chimed as quietly as bell flowers. I hit 21; Rowan crept toward 22; Zara grinned at a tidy Engineering boost. But celebration shivered under the gallery's main feature: a suspended gear door fifty metres tall, each tooth gnawed by rust, locked by three bronze winches sunk into podiums of basalt. Between the teeth waited the black of infinity—our path down… or a tomb if the mechanism jammed.

Liora jogged circles around the first winch. "Triplex lock," she said, breath fogging. "Needs simultaneous crank alignment."

Hedrum braced the second. "Meaning?"

"Meaning," I said, "we wind together or we get shredded separately."

We leapt into position. Zara's capacitor-pistol hissed, magnetising the gear track. I slotted my sledge onto the socket, muscles knotted under salvaged plate. At my nod, five voices counted in Slav-burred unison: "Raz… dva… tri!"

Metal screamed like tortured whales. Teeth juddered; dust avalanched from arches. The winch fought every centimetre, as if the gallery itself feared what slept beyond. My Stamina bar plummeted: 256 → 211 → 179.

Rowan's popped yellow. "Hold—incoming!"

Bats boiled from ceiling fissures—hundreds, maybe thousands, each with skin like torn parchment and eyes glowing void. They swept at the glow-worms, devouring light. Darkness avalanched.

I'd prepared for this.

"Disengage!" I barked. Liora toggled her satchel; phosphorus flares burst, raining white sparks. Bats shrieked, blinded.

Rowan loosed a Storm-splinter arrow. In flight the arrow fractured into six shards, crackling blue. Each shard punched through a cluster, numbers cascading:

Critical! -112 HP

Shock! -87 HP

Stun applied (1.5 s)

Hedrum swung his keg bomb like a mace, catching a swarm mid-air. The keg detonated, concussive wave flattening a fifty-metre arc. UI chimed:

Area Cleared — Cave Bat Swarm (71/71) eliminated

XP + 4 550 (party share)

Amid the carnage, I felt the winch slack. One last heave and the colossal gear lurched aside, slamming home with a thunder that rattled teeth. A corridor yawed, lined with crystal ribs, descending in a perfect helix.

System pop-up:

New Quest Objective Unlocked:

"Helix of Makers" — Navigate to coordinate (x:-885, y:-443, z:-6000)

Rewards: Access to Core Chamber Threshold | +Faction Reputation (Scholars of the First Forge)

Warning: Helix integrity at 62 % — Collapses likely.

Rowan slotted a rope. "Ladies first?"

Hedrum laughed. "Dwarf last; I bounce better."

We rappelled into the helix. Steps here weren't stone but floating gear segments spinning ever so slowly—ancient gravity tech humming beneath. For each step, we timed the spin, hopped to the next disk. Miss a beat and you'd slip into a void criss-crossed by pale electricity.

Mid-descent my Ore Sense pinged faintly—raw mythril below, but sourceless. Like the mountain's heart exhaling through pores. The tingling coaxed mischief: that ache to dig, to know, even as logic screamed keep your head down.

"Focus," Zara whispered, reading my face. "Save your hunch for the Core."

I nodded, though the itch only grew.

A kilometre down the helix kinked—disks misaligned by seismic torque. Past the bend a bronze gate blocked passage, embossed by interlocking dodecahedrons. The gate floated mid-air, unattached to rails.

Liora traced fingertips. Runes flared:

Ancient Gear Lock — Status: Dormant

Solve the Torsion Puzzle to Proceed

Failure Consequence: Collateral Collapse (radius 40 m)

Great. A fallout console puzzle at six-thousand-metre depth.

Zara projected a holo of the mechanism's internal gears. "Looks like six rotational groups. We need median torsion equilibrium at zero—"

Hedrum hefted his hammer. "Or I smash until happy?"

"Your last smash cracked a keg," Rowan reminded him. "It's still dripping from your beard."

I ran numbers: Each group showed paired symbols—crescent, triangle, square. My mining toolkit included an old Surveying Charm—could read stress vectors. I activated it; glyphic arrows bloomed, showing which plates resisted or yielded.

"Rotate crescents 45 degrees clockwise," I said. "Triangles counter by 30. Squares stay."

My party eyed me.

"Trust the rocks," I added, Russian lilt curling.

They cranked. Torsion arcs pulsed along seams; the gate flickered translucent. A final chime:

Puzzle Solved — Structural Load Balanced

Gate Operational

The bronze parted like curtain silk, revealing a cavern awash in indigo light. Stalactites hung like sabers; underfoot, a river of molten glass flowed, slag bridging across at intervals. And across that river, Ironclad lanterns bobbed—ten, twelve, maybe more. Scouts ahead of Dungrim, staking claims.

I killed all light but the worms. We huddled beneath a column.

Rowan's eyes glinted. "Hit them or slip by?"

"Slip," I muttered. "Numbers too high."

But Ore Sense pulsed again—right under their camp. A fugitive vein bulged beneath translucent glass, mythril so pure its aura tickled sinuses. If Ironclad bunked there, they'd smell it soon enough. Couldn't allow.

"A distraction," I whispered.

I rummaged my satchel, produced a palm-sized seismic charge—one of Gus's prototypes. Set yield low enough to fracture crust, not collapse roof. Timed fuse: ten seconds.

Rowan understood. He nocked a smoke arrow, ready to cloak the blast.

We crept. Each step across slag bridges squealed. Ironclad's nearest sentry—a dwarf cleric—turned, but smoke arrow hit his lantern, dousing flame in smog. In the confusion, I wedged charge into a fissure at camp's base.

Timer ticked. Rowan yanked me back behind a basalt hood.

Ka-WHUMP.

The crust bulged, split, then sank. Hot mythril slurry geysered. Ironclad tents toppled, their ore sleds tumbling into molten glass. Screams echoed like choir notes in a blast furnace. System credited nothing; environment kills don't pay XP, but we'd stolen time—worth more than levels.

We sprinted away before survivors regrouped.

Minutes later, in a narrow antechamber, we paused to catch breath. Stamina bars hovered low orange. Liora handed out cobalt tonic—bad blueberry aftertaste, +25 % regen.

Zara wiped soot from lens. "That camp buys us maybe an hour. Dungrim will smell sabotage."

Rowan checked party cord—our iron rings still intact. "We keep moving. Core Chamber's ahead—Gus's estimates say one, maybe two clicks."

I nodded, but gut twisted. Sabotage felt right strategically, yet each victim screamed inside memory. No casualties? My mind replayed the dwarf cleric vanishing into molten glow. Not our fault; they would've done worse. But guilt clung like coal dust.

We pressed on through crawlspace tunnels so narrow the golem had to kneel. Metallic drones buzzed louder—Sphere maintenance beetles scuttling along rails, ignoring us unless jostled. Hedrum almost punted one out of reflex; I slapped his gauntlet down. "Trip the beetles, they mark you." Old dwarven proverb.

Soon an artificial breeze rose—the sign of open caverns ahead. My anticipation soared, mirrored by Ore Sense sparking like static along skin. Rowan must've felt it too; he tapped quiver to ensure trick arrows sat within reach.

Then the wind carried voices.

"…—not your fault, but Dungrim will cleave you if that mythril sank. Shut traps and move." Harsh, muffled through helmet. Ironclad again, another squad, maybe refugees from the camp.

We ducked behind stalagmites. Through cracks I counted eight: four bruiser fighters, two magi, a hunter drake on iron chain, and one priest. The corridor behind them opened onto a suspension bridge—our route.

Zara surveyed hanging cables overhead. Whispered: "Old pulley system. I can drop the bridge."

"Do we need to?" Rowan murmured. "Could wait; follow."

I examined load-bearing columns. The drake's chain scraped sparks; one ember drifted toward pooled gas vent—yellow fumes hugging ground.

Idea struck. I pulled tiny bellows from pouch, pumped the gas puddle toward Ironclad feet. Liora handed a friction match; I flicked it, dropped.

Fwoomp.

Flame raced along vapor trail, blossomed under drake. Chain popped. The beast bucked, flinging handler over railing. Chaos erupted.

We charged.

UI flashed:

Ambush Initiated! Surprise Bonus +30 % damage (10 s)

Hedrum's sledge crushed a mage's focus crystal. -312 HP, insta break. Rowan loosed arrow through priest's throat—silence shot.

I waded into fighter-bruiser, parrying with sledge haft. Not built for finesse, but stone-skin draught let me tank. Zara triggered overhead pulley; cables snapped, bridge floor tilted, hurling rest into abyss. Their death cries faded into subterranean choir.

Loot bags skittered along remaining planks. We grabbed only essentials—mana potions, an Undershaft Map fragment. Glance showed branching tunnels converging toward a central void labelled "Core Chamber."

Finally.

System notified:

Quest Update:

Helix of Makers — Completed

Core Chamber Threshold Reached

Objective Added: Survive Entry Clash (Ironclad Force Est. 30–40)

Optional Objective: Disable Ancient Sentinel Alarm Nodes (0/3)

Threshold corridor widened into a spiralling ramp descending around a pit so vast I could not see bottom, only blue-white luminescence breathing like a slow furnace. Along ramp walls perched obsidian obelisks etched with sigils—alarm nodes, the optional objective.

Rowan grinned. "Disable nodes, fewer mobs spawn."

"Disable nodes, renovations cost." Hedrum shrugged. "We smashing or hacking?"

"Hacking," Zara said, twirling jeweller's drill. She approached first obelisk, inserted diamond-bit, humming. Glyphs flickered between scarlet and cyan.

Liora tossed me a small satchel. "Liquid silence. Coat the conduit to mute the shriek if she botches."

Zara's hands didn't botch. Node dimmed; UI registered 1/3. We progressed, replicating on second.

Approaching third, Ore Sense flared so violently I staggered. Underlined red icon emerged: Ancient Core Guardian—dormant but awareness up-ticking, like a dragon stirring.

"Shhh," I hissed though no one spoke. "It listens."

We reached the node base, only to find Ironclad already there. Twenty warriors ringed the obelisk, axes clinking. In front, dwarven lieutenant with faceplate shaped into gear-toothed grin: Borin Forgehand, Dungrim's right palm.

He saw us instantly. "Gnome," he bellowed, "boss wants your head gift-wrapped."

Rowan lifted arrow tip. "Sorry, out of ribbon."

Combat triggered.

We had terrain: ramp curved, giving height. Liora uncapped smoke phials, rolled them. Mist cloaked midsection; we retreated up slope, forcing Ironclad to climb into kill zone.

Hedrum hurled mines: shrapnel tinked off plate, softening vanguard. Zara's capacitor pistol arced lightning, chaining across helmets.

But they kept coming. Borin led charge, swinging twin forge-axes. Each blow forced me back. HUD spat damage:

-78 HP

-64 HP (bleed stack)

Armor creaked; sledge heavy as betrayal.

"Fall back," Rowan shouted.

"No space," I growled.

An idea—dangerous, worthy of veins of debt.

I toggled Ore Sense. Vision exploded: ramp's load webs rendered neon threads. I located weakest segment just ahead. Shoved sledge into crevice, jammed mine, triggered.

"Jump!"

We leapt aside as ramp slab collapsed, shearing off. Borin and five cohorts plummeted. Their screams dopplered into depth.

Rest staggered; shock gave us seconds. Zara finished node hack; glyphs snuffed. Optional objective 3/3 complete.

System reward shimmered:

Alarm Subnetwork Offline — Additional Reinforcements Disabled

Party XP +7 500

Unique Consumable Acquired: Stabiliser Panacea (negates 1 lethal bleed effect)

Breathing ragged, we limped into final archway.

Before us—Core Chamber.

Imagine the night sky inverted, pinned beneath a cathedral of gemstone stalactites. In the centre soared a pillar of titanium crystal, veins of mythril swirling like captured lightning. At its base slept a colossus: stone plates layered over core hydraulics, arms shaped as mining hammers, breastplate pulsing with reactor-blue light—the Ancient Core Guardian.

And across the chamber's west mouth marched Dungrim Ironheart and forty elites, banners snapping.

Rowan exhaled fog. "Guess alarm or no, he was always invited."

I tasted copper; maybe phantom bleed, maybe fear.

System overlay tinted red:

World Event Triggered: Heart of the Mountain

Phase One — Territorial Clash

Win Condition: Eliminate rival intruders OR reduce Guardian integrity ≤ 90 % to shift aggro.

Fail Condition: Party wipe or Guardian wipe us.

Special Rule: First to plant extraction beacon earns mining rights (0/1 planted)

Hedrum laughed a touch manic. "Extraction beacon? You bring one?"

I unlatched backpack, producing a mithril rod inscribed by Gus. "One prototype."

Dungrim roared across chasm, voice amplified. "Gnome! Back so soon to donate another tool?"

I ignored, surveying crystal outcrops, possible cover, potential fulcrums. My party trusted the silence; strategy brewed behind stony mask.

Then the Guardian's ocular slit ignited white-hot.

Rowan whispered, "Descent's over. Time to climb."

I planted beacon line into basalt, but did not trigger yet. Instead I let the line anchor my resolve. Somewhere kilometres above, Viktor's heart monitor beeping; Anna's violin; Mitya's catapult. They were my extraction beacon, always.

I squared shoulders toward Dungrim.

"Ready to bankrupt a monopoly?" I asked.

Zara chambered capacitor round. Liora readied vials. Hedrum kissed hammer. Rowan simply said:

"Shift change. Let's make management bleed."

We stepped onto crystal floor as Guardian rose—stone grinding, reactors humming pentatonic chords. Ironclad advanced like a tidal wall.

And under my HUD, a new prompt winked:

Instance Record: No player has yet survived Phase One.

Unique Achievement on offer.

I grinned until jaw cracked.

"Let's write a new record," I whispered, and charged.