Chapter 25 — Clash at the Crystal Furnace

Chapter 25 — Clash at the Crystal Furnace

 Flintspar's tram bells were still echoing in the back of my skull when my boots scraped across the threshold into the Core Chamber and the world shrank to a single, endless breath. Air shivered—thin, electric, like standing inside a turbine—while the crystal pillar at the cavern's center loomed so tall it seemed to puncture the star-lit dome of the Dyson Sphere itself. Helical veins of titanium-mythril spiraled up its facets, each strand thrumming with stored sunlight, and every pulse rippled through the stone floor in waves that set my teeth buzzing. I'd mined copper seams, cracked quartz, even coaxed singing ore out of ghost-lit vents, yet nothing had prepared me for the living heart of the mountain. It was less a deposit than a monument, an alien cathedral grown from compressed centuries.

 Rowan stepped to my right, drawing an arrow tipped with starlight steel. He exhaled one sharp syllable—"Bozhe"—and the sound vanished into the hush. Liora, on my left, uncorked two glowworm vials and let the emerald insects spill upward, seeding the gloom with floating constellations. Hedrum muttered a dwarven prayer that sounded suspiciously like a brewery recipe. Zara knelt, sliding her jeweler's loupe over one eye to magnify impossible seams in the pillar, as if she'd already begun measuring how many fortunes our pick strokes could carve from it.

 No one swung a tool. Because twenty paces beyond, boots clanged against an opposite archway, and Ironclad spilled into view like molten slag dumped from a furnace quench. Banner first—black gear on red velvet—then Dungrim Ironheart himself, shoulders armored in obsidian scale, hammer the size of a railway sleeper slung across his back. Behind him marched two shield walls of elite bruisers, ranks of guild magi in ash-gray robes, and a half ring of crossbowmen. Their arrival warped the air with rival heat: guild authority, arrogance, and raw combat stats.

 Between our two parties, the Ancient Core Guardian slumbered at the pillar's base: a giant wrought of stone plates, mithril rivets, and reactor-bright joints. Its head resembled a miner's helmet grown to cathedral scale, visor slit shut across a gemstone eye. Both hands ended in multipurpose digger hammers—each big enough to flatten a wagon—resting crosswise on its lap as if it contemplated a tomb. That tomb could easily be ours.

 The System registered the standoff in silent white text:

World Event Initiated: Heart-of-the-Mountain Claim

Active Factions: Companions of the Core (5), Ironclad Main Force (38)

Neutral Sentinel: Ancient Core Guardian (Dormant, Integrity 100 %)

Phase One Objective: Secure Territorial Control

Special Rule: First party to reach Extraction Beacon limit gains resource rights.

 Rowan's arrow never wavered, but he whispered, "Thirty-eight red tags and a world-boss neutral? We're outnumbered seven-to-one."

 "Always were," I murmured. "Doesn't change the shift."

 Dungrim raised a gauntleted fist, halting his troops five body lengths from the pillar. He let his helm retract—iron scales folding back to reveal a beard plaited with gemstone beads worth more than my apartment lease. His voice cracked like ore under pressure.

 "Gnome!" The single word clanged off crystal ribs. "Still digging holes you can't defend? Step aside. Claim what pebbles you scraped and walk away alive."

 A chorus of snickers rolled through his lines. Some magi started slow-casting shields, blue sigils climbing their staves. Rowan's bowstring creaked, but I lifted a hand, asking him to hold. No sense loosing the first shaft when the Guardian was still sleeping and the pillar's fortune just waiting.

 I cupped gauntlets around mouth. "Better idea, Dungrim. Union rules. We split the ore fifty-fifty, both parties walk out rich, and the Guardian stays dormant. Otherwise you'll bleed wages paying respawn fees."

 Even I barely believed the bluff, but the words filled the chamber, tidy, confident—copybook Russian fatalism. Dungrim spat. His hammer slid off his shoulder, the head striking stone hard enough to spark.

 "Negotiations closed."

 He pivoted left-arm down. Crossbowmen adjusted sights. Magi completed sigils. Guardian's visor flickered—perhaps picking up ambient aggression. My stomach tightened.

 Hedrum's bass whispered, "Orders?"

 "Use geology," I said. "Not steel."

 Rowan exhaled and let fly the first arrow—target not a dwarf but a crystal buttress jutting above their back rank. Storm-splinter shaft shattered the outcrop; shards rained like dagger hail. Crossbowmen flinched, losing line of sight.

 At the same instant Liora hurled two smoke vials. Glass burst on stone, spilling dense cobalt fog that devoured half the magi cohort's spell circles. Their shield cast fizzled, sparks sizzling out.

 Ironclad's front line charged anyway—twelve dwarves in serrated plate, axes roaring. Footfalls shook dust off ancient beams. Zara and I dashed sideways between stalagmites, drawing them into uneven terrain. I swung my titanium sledge not to kill but to strike support spars carved into cavern floor centuries ago. Wood splintered, stone groaned, and a slab pitched sideways, opening a rent that swallowed two attackers alive.

 UI feed scrolled quick:

Environmental Kill x2 – Collapsed floor

XP Gained: 1 200 (party share)

Guardian Integrity – 0 %

 No Guardian reaction yet, but each vibration crept it closer to waking.

 At center grid, Dungrim met Hedrum in a hammer duel that sounded like artillery. Hedrum's barrel-chested build looked stout by human scale; next to Dungrim he seemed like a beer keg fighting a forge. Every clash dented the floor, concussion waves stuttering my heartbeat. Rowan provided cover fire—arrows detonating into taser netting that stalled any healer rushing to aid their boss.

 I scanned for the lever cluster Old Gus had sketched from an obsolete dev blog—somewhere along the southern causeway, there should be a dormant force-field node keyed to the Guardian's maintenance routine. Leapfrog that power into ramp rails, trap half the Ironclad casters in a side alcove. There: three bronze gears half buried in slag, glowing faint teal.

 I sprinted across crystal dust, sliding under an overhead axe. My HP dipped to 87 % from a glancing blow. Adrenaline blurred readings. One of the magi reacted, launching a chain-lightning dart. Static licked my armor, eating twenty more hit points and slapping a Disorient tag across my HUD. I staggered but kept stride, slamming sledge into the first bronze gear—quarter turn clockwise, as Gus's footnote insisted.

 Gear two—quarter turn counterclockwise. Gear three—jammed. Corrosion locked its teeth. I swore in abrupt Russian. A dwarven guard barreled toward me, axe poised like a guillotine.

 Zara ghosted in, capacitor pistol crackling. A bolt of azure energy stitched the dwarf's helm; he went rigid, paralyzed. She winked through loupe. "Need torque?"

 "Need leverage."

 She tossed me a collapsible wrench. I jammed it into gear three, cranked with every drop of Strength buff my miner's protein bars had granted. Gear teeth screeched, finally grudgingly clicked. A resonant hum spread through the pylons. From the corner of my eye I caught force-field panes slamming down along the alcove mouth like glass shutters. Twelve Ironclad magi found themselves boxed with three wandering stone mites—low-level maintenance mobs we'd ignored. Inside the barrier, their frantic spell-gestures rebounded harmlessly.

 UI chimed:

Ancient Containment Grid Online – Energy 45 %

Foreign Entities Trapped: 12

Phase One Completion Threshold: 50 % rival forces incapacitated or eliminated.

Current: 30 %

 Progress, but not enough. And the Guardian's visor now flickered a sustained crimson. Stone eyelids groaned open, revealing a diamond iris swirling with reactor plasma. Its head lifted; dust avalanched off shoulder plates. Every Ironclad and Companion froze—momentary animal awe at colossal life.

 System ribbon slashed across our vision:

Neutral Sentinel Activating!

Ancient Core Guardian Integrity: 100 %

Behavior Mode: Intrusion-Purge

Target Priority: Highest local kinetic output

 Dungrim registered Highest Local Kinetic Output; his hammer swings qualified. The Guardian rose full height—twenty metres—hydraulic tendons hissing like train brakes. It brought both maul-hands up and slammed them into ground. The impact wave cracked floor plates, flinging dwarves and crystal shards in ballistic arcs. My HP dropped another 8 % from shock alone.

 "Glaz!" Rowan shouted—a curse and a warning. "It's live!"

 He fired ropes into overhanging stalactites, providing anchor points. Liora dashed to a vantage, mixing a fresh concoction that glowed silver—a gravity sap designed to slow titan limbs. Hedrum, battered but grinning bleeding gums, disengaged from Dungrim and sprinted toward me.

 Dungrim roared, voice hoarse. "Focus the gnome, ignore the machine!"

 Bad call. The Guardian's right hammer swept lateral like a subway train, clipping Dungrim's flank. His plate armor caved inward; he and two bodyguards somersaulted across the cavern, HP bars plummeting into red. Ironclad healers scrambled to cast across containment glass, but their spells splashed off the field. Panic cracked their formation.

 We exploited. Rowan's arrow volley herded loose Ironclad knights toward Guardian's descending left hammer. Two obliterated, gear and all. Environmental kill XP rained.

Ironclad Knight (Lvl 31) slain by Ancient Core Guardian.

XP +1 400 (party share)

 Guardian's integrity still at 98 %. Just a scratch. But each casualty trimmed our Phase One target count. I toggled Party HUD: we'd neutralized twenty-one of thirty-eight. Still short.

 Plan B: the dormant flame channel. Gus's scribbled margin note warned of ventilation grates designed to vent superheated gases if the Guardian overheated. Overload the release valves, trick the Sentinel into venting under Ironclad's feet.

 I slid beside Hedrum. "Need your Boom Juice."

 He slapped his last keg into my hands. "Light her, lad."

 Together we sprinted to a grate cluster near pillar's southwest quadrant. Through the slats I could feel a furnace gust every six seconds—breath of the Sphere's inner reactor. I primed the keg fuse with a sparkstone, then rammed the barrel through the grate, lodging it into conduit elbow. Six-second countdown became five, four—Guardian turned, eye lasers scanning. We dove behind the pillar's minor spur.

 Keg detonated. A column of white plasma spewed from the grate, flaring upward like solar eruption and smashing into the Guardian's right elbow joint. The monster jerked, recalibrated servo arcs. Integrity meter in my HUD slid: 98 → 94.

 But the blast also showered molten slag across Ironclad's rear guard. Three crossbowmen dissolved in sparks, HP zeroed before their screams ended. Phase objective pinged—rival force casualties 50 % reached. A soft, melodic chime:

Phase One Complete.

Extraction Beacon Activation Enabled.

Guardian Aggro Shifts to Highest Environmental Disruption.

 That was us. The Sentinel re-targeted, diamond iris swiveling onto our five signatures clustered near the pillar. Great.

 Rowan shouted, "Beacon now, while it's locked on!"

 I unhooked Gus's prototype from my belt—a mithril spike fused to a rune-etched coffer. Slammed it into crystal floor, twisted the activation cap. Energy conduits glowed, interlocking hex grid projecting above like a wireframe tree.

Extraction Beacon Calibration: 3 s … 2 s … 1 s

Beacon Online – Mining Rights Reserved to Companions of the Core (60 min hold)

 A world-wide announcement echoed:

SYSTEM BROADCAST:

First Extraction Beacon Planted at Heart-of-the-Mountain by player "Orefinder."

Resource rights contested for 60 m or until Beacon destroyed.

 Chat channels erupted server-wide; I blocked them. Focus on not dying.

 Guardian raised its left hammer high, targeting the Beacon. Its palm aperture glowed cobalt. Liora hurled her silver gravity potion; the vial shattered midair, coating the hammer in liquid starlight. The descent slowed to a ponderous arc. Zara shot capacitor bolts into the hamstring pistons; crackling discharge made the colossus stagger.

 "Rowan, anchor line!" I barked.

 He loosed a grappling arrow into a ceiling beam, the cable trailing into my hand. I clipped it to my belt, sprinted straight for Dungrim—now struggling to rise while healers pulsed him with mend spells through ruptured force-field flickers. Surprise was my pick's edge.

 Dungrim saw me late. He swung his warhammer one-handed, anger fueling a blow that would pulp a troll. I slid under the arc, losing seven HP to shockwave. Popped to feet inside his guard, sledge butt slamming his gauntlet, forcing him to drop hammer. He headbutted; my visor cracked spiderweb lines. HUD flashed Blindness 1.2 s, but autopilot muscle memory drove my knee into his thigh gap. Bleed stack.

 Vision cleared in time to see Rowan's cable spool tighten—he'd anchored second line around a cracked support column beside Dungrim. Together we now formed a crude pulley.

 "Hedrum—pillar!" I yelled.

 The dwarf understood. He heaved against the cable slack, using his weight as counterweight. The cracked column groaned, leaning toward us.

 Dungrim realized trap, dove—but his wounded leg buckled. Column snapped, granite mass tipping. He rolled clear at last instant, but the slab crashed onto the Guardian's foot instead, pinning it. Dungrim crawled, bleeding, hammerless, toward his bow-crushed comrades.

 Guardian roared in sub-audible rumble; pillars across cavern quivered. Integrity 89 %. Not yet our priority. We needed Ironclad smashed enough to stand down.

 Liora sprinted past me, slapping quick-stone patches onto Dungrim's armor joints, petrifying them. He cursed, immobile. She flashed a grin. "Boss loot secured," she quipped.

 Ironclad morale shattered. Remaining fighters retreated, dragging wounded. I caught snatches of voice chat: "Pull out!" "Guardian's enraged!" "Beacon's lost!"

 Rowan lowered his bow. "Victory?"

 I shook head. "Guardian still up. Beacon hold not secure till we drop its integrity under ninety—oh." Integrity readout at 89; we'd hit the threshold. The world event ticked Phase Two.

Phase Two – Core Guardian Rampage

New Objective: Survive or Defeat the Guardian

Secondary: Maintain Beacon ≥50 % HP (Current 100 %)

 Now everyone on map saw a world boss bar labeled Ancient Core Guardian. Global chat howled. Some allied guilds probably already mobilizing here.

 Hedrum wiped blood. "Time to fell the big lad."

 Strategy: exploit crystal pillars' harmonic fractures. Guardian's power conduits fed through floor node clusters; overload a cluster, feedback stuns limbs. We needed repeated strike patterns.

 Rowan and Zara harried from range—arrows and capacitor bolts shocking servo lines. I toggled Ore Sense, ignoring risk. Veins beneath floor lit neon; I traced a path to the largest node—luminescent quartz bulb pulsing with mana.

 Guardian smashed hammer downward—I rolled clear, shield of shards erupting behind me. My HP dipped to 42 %, teetering red. Consumed stabilizer panacea drop—it purged Bleed, restored 25 % HP. Heart hammered like drill pistons.

 At node I planted Liora's last seismic charge, fuse set thirty seconds. Rowan lured Guardian's left foot over node by peppering knee joint. Hedrum lobbed a keg to right, loud enough to shift aggro vector. Twelve seconds.

 Guardian footplate settled onto node. Five seconds. Charge detonated.

 Crystal floor erupted, geysering prismatic shards up the titan's leg. Blue lightning crawled across its torso; visor blinked error glyphs. Integrity plunged: 89 → 80 → 74. UI flagged Staggered (10 s).

 "Climb!" I shouted.

 Rowan zipped a rope arrow into Guardian's back ridges. Zara, Liora, and I clipped harnesses, scaling the massive spine like industrial alpinists. Each heat vent exhaled acrid ozone. Seven seconds of stagger left when we reached the shoulder deck.

 Center chest housed a crystalline core the size of a water tower—glowing red then blue then white. I fished Gus's last disposable detonite drill from pack. Only one, twenty-second fuse, radius lethal. Rowan planted feet for brace position.

 "Twenty metres down," he warned. "Jump left after ignition."

 I stabbed the detonite into a seam of stone plating between heart struts. Digital counter scrolled red digits: 20… 19…

 Pop-up warned:

You are within lethal radius of explosive drill (1500 true damage).

Recommend immediate evacuation.

 Liora affixed a quick-line to my belt. "I hate heights," she muttered, and shoved me.

 We slid down Guardian's arm as it recovered from stagger, giant elbow jerking. Timer hit 7. We leapt, free-falling toward a hanging crystal ledge. Hedrum below swung his hammer like a baseball bat, smashing a stalagmite to create a landing platform mid-air. We crashed onto it, HP bars crunching but alive.

 Timer reached zero. Guardian's chest detonated—a cone of bluish fire spearing upward. Shards rained molten. Integrity bar nose-dived: 74 → 51 → 30. World shook; minor quakes rippled across cavern wall.

 Guardian bellowed final time, half torso missing. Its right hammer arm flailed, then froze. With sound of continental plates grinding, the titan collapsed backward against the central pillar, shattering huge crystal flakes.

 System text flashed gold, brighter than all prior alerts:

WORLD FIRST ACHIEVEMENT!

Ancient Core Guardian Defeated by players: Orefinder, RowanAsh, HedrumRockbarrel, LioraGreenthorn, ZaraCrystalcut.

EXP Awarded: +140 000 (shared)

Unique Title Earned: Sphere Delver

Reputation +200 (All Scholar Factions)

Loot Cache Generation in 60 s

 A second announcement reverberated server-wide, followed by roaring applause emotes from chat channels I'd muted seconds earlier. Even with filters, the UI ticker overflowed with congratulations, disbelief, accusations of dev favoritism—usual gamer frenzy.

 I felt weightless. Not VR weightless—soul weightless. Months of cramped tunnels, sleepless nights calculating debt interest, each pick swing carving hope out of granite—all of it culminated in this impossible roar of triumph.

 Beacon still hummed, undamaged. Ironclad survivors cowered behind fallen stalagmites. Dungrim, arms bound by quick-stone casts, glared murder. Victory chemical highs crashed into caution.

 Because System triggered loot sequence. A vault-like hex blooming above Guardian's corpse. Metallic blossoms unfurled, dropping chest after chest—each lacquered in mythril filigree, locked with glyphs. And shimmering cascades of ore—raw Heart-crystal nodes—tumbled like silver hail.

 Rowan whispered, "That's… enough to buy the server."

 Liora giggled hysterically, tears in eyes. Hedrum uncorked new keg from nothing—maybe conjured by dwarven miracle—and sprayed foam skyward. Zara pressed finger to lips, reminding all our HUD still painted bounty icons above us; celebration must wait until extraction.

 I crouched, body buzzing, and touched the nearest Heart-crystal sliver. It thrummed like a faraway orchestra. UI displayed a market estimate so absurd I almost laughed.

 Yet inside the warmth a razor of focus sliced: debts not yet gone, siblings not yet safe. This was the ore vein that could set them free—if we lived out the next hour, defended beacon, survived Ironclad's last spite.

 Guardian lay dead, but conflict still breathed.

 System beeped countdown: Loot claim window 28 s.

 My party ring link pulsed. I raised voice.

 "Rowan, perimeter. Liora, potion triage. Zara, start gem appraisal. Hedrum—watch Dungrim; if he twitches, break his kneecaps again."

 "Da, foreman," Hedrum rumbled, saluting with foam dripping down beard.

 As they moved, I allowed myself one slow breath, inhaling the metallic tang of mythril dust and hot quartz.

 "Shift's not over," I muttered. "We're just switching tunnels."

 Chat buzzed; global cameras pivoted; history carved itself in real-time. And at the edge of my HUD, just beneath EXP surge notifications, floated a quiet reminder string—stylistic, measured, and as workmanlike as any Osadchuk sentence ever penned:

A miner doesn't quit when the vein runs shallow; he digs until light breaks through.

 We had dug. Light now bled from shattered crystal like dawn through coal dust. All that remained was hauling it to the surface—past greed, betrayal, and one bound dwarf whose hatred still smoldered hotter than magma.

 Extraction timer ticked. Twenty seconds to bag legend.

 Onward, then, to the next swing.

Chapter 26 — The Battle for the Heart

 The first treasure chest hadn't even cooled on its mythril hinges when the room decided we'd celebrated too early.

 Shards of the Ancient Core Guardian still sizzled across the obsidian floor, luminous coolant pooling like spilled moonlight. Hedrum was halfway through a victory swig, foam staining his beard, and Zara had her jeweler's loupe pressed against a fallen adamantite servo, already calculating resale. I'd just planted a boot on the second chest lid—felt solid, heavy, probably loaded with sapphire ingots—when every fallen fragment on the battlefield vibrated as though a bass drum punched the cavern from below.

 Rowan's arrow hand froze. "Please tell me that's post-mortem twitch."

 No such luck. UI text flashed amber across all five of our HUDs:

Warning: Sentinel Integrity Recalibrating…

Structural Cores Detected — 3/3 Active

Phase Shift Imminent (12 s)

 Liora swore something botanical and vile. The mythril chests slid shut by themselves, glyph-locks sealing with a hiss. Across the hall Dungrim's remaining warriors staggered from behind shattered columns, expressions flipping from defeat-numbed to horrified. Even the quick-stone wraps pinning Dungrim's arms cracked as he strained to rise.

 I stared at the Guardian's corpse—or what I thought was a corpse. The upper torso lay severed, true, but deep inside the ruin three crystal nodes pulsed red-gold-violet, cycling like foul traffic lights. Gus's margin notes from the blueprint flared in memory: Tri-heart redundancy. Decapitation just angry, not dead.

 Eight seconds.

 "Huddle!" I barked. Hedrum dropped his keg with a slosh, we formed a tight circle beside the beacon's shimmer.

 "The big lad still has backup cores," I said, switching to Party Whisper so nearby Ironclads wouldn't overhear. "Fire, ice, lightning. Kill all three or it rehats."

 Rowan's jaw clenched. "And the explosive drill? One-use already spent."

 "Blueprint's modular." I pointed at the wreckage. "We scavenge a new payload—on the fly."

 Liora's pupils dilated with alchemist hunger. "Coolant, capacitor shards, rune capacitors—yes. Give me sixty seconds."

 "Buy her sixty," I told the others.

 Zero on the countdown hit like a warhorn. The cavern's gravity inverted for a heartbeat, slamming everyone half-metre into the air. When we crashed back, the ruin reassembled itself: plates clicked, molten seams knitted, and a new torso—transparent quartz shot through with elemental veins—rose from the debris. Where a face had been, a triskelion halo spun, each spoke a different hue. A deeper bass rang, and System text punched us again:

Ancient Core Guardian — Omega Configuration

Integrity: 100 %

New Behaviours Unlocked: Elemental Beam Sweep, Core Spawn

Loot & XP adjusted for World-First Completion

 Dungrim bellowed fury but even he kept his distance. For one long breath we all stared at that resurrected titan, both factions equally tiny beneath its shadow.

 Then the floor erupted in concentric rings of lava lines—hot orange around the Guardian, cooler blues near the walls. An implicit border: cross into the inner ring, take heat damage; linger on the outer ring, risk falling stalactites.

 "Weapons up!" Dungrim shouted to his battered ranks. "For the guild—AND THE BONUSES!"

 A dozen Ironclad axes lifted in weary answer. Their mages, still trapped behind our containment field, began chanting remote buffs. Dungrim turned to me, eyes twin coals. "Temporary truce, gnome. Nobody cashes out if that thing wipes the room."

 I spat stone dust. "Co-op contract: you soak hits, we crack cores. Agreed?"

 "Agreed—until the cores shatter."

 Fine. One crisis at a time.

The first core — Fire

 The halo rotated until the red spoke locked forward. A knitting-machine whine, then a geyser of plasma lanced across the floor, carving a molten trench toward the closest cluster of Ironclad bruisers. They scattered—too slow. Three caught the beam, armor flash-melting. Their death wails mixed with the smell of blistered steel.

Ironclad Bruiser (Lv 27) slain by Ancient Core Guardian.

 XP +480 (shared)

 Heat Gauge +9 %

 Heat gauge? A new bar appeared top-centre, climbing each time plasma hit the ground. At 100 %, I didn't want to guess. Maybe the entire cavern would vent like a kiln.

 "Rowan!" I yelled. "We need aggro pull—drag red beam left, away from beacon."

 He nodded, loosed a Storm-splinter arrow straight into the Guardian's visor slit. Damage negligible, but aggro icons flared on our party tags. The titan's red spoke pivoted toward us. We sprinted clockwise, hugging outer ring, letting the beam score a semicircle behind.

 Mid-run Hedrum unclipped a keg bomb. "Cooked charge—three seconds?"

 "Two." I corrected.

 He lit the fuse with his beard foam still dripping, lobbed it underhand into the molten trench. Boom—plasma geyser splattered, clogging vents with slag. Heat gauge ticked down three percent—small but proof of concept.

 Liora and Zara had raided the Guardian's severed plates, hauling capacitor shards big as dinner plates toward the beacon workbench. Wraith-blue sparks leapt each time shard hit shard. I sprinted over, slid on my knees.

 "What's recipe?"

 "EMP bore," Liora said, eyes blazing. "Core murderer. Needs stable power coil—"

 Zara held one up, jangling. "From first-phase elbow joint. Smashed but repairable."

 I extracted a micro-welder, started soldering leads while my HP ticked down from proximity burns. Every fifty milliseconds System whined about Unsafe Work Environment. Story of my life.

 Behind us Rowan yelped—red beam nicked his cloak, ignition trailing flame. He rolled, slapped, kept running, still peppering the visor for hate.

The second core — Ice

 Red spoke dimmed; blue ignited. The Guardian's left hammer morphed mid-spin into a turbine head. Frost auroras spiralled, flash-freezing magma trenches into brittle obsidian. Rampant temperature swing cracked half the floor, sending both factions stumbling on glass.

 Ice beam sliced at knee height. An Ironclad healer tried barrier magic; frost impact shattered the barrier like sugar glass and encrusted the dwarf inside. Frozen solid, then hammered apart by tailing debris.

 Heat gauge reset; a Frost gauge started. At 70 %, stalactites overhead turned to lethal icicles—shaking ominously.

 We could leverage that.

 "Hedrum, new mines top ridge," I ordered.

 He saluted drunkenly. "On ice? We skate." He dropped sticky charges onto the highest fissures, their tripwires camouflaged in rime. If Guardian tracked Rowan again it would stomp into those charges; chain reaction dropping stalactites onto its back.

 I finished welding the power coil, slotted it into Liora's bore casing. She poured quicksilver into the rune grooves; Vera silver runes flared. Device menu popped:

Item Crafted: Mythril Pulse-Bore (Prototype)

Usage: Drill into elemental core, deliver 2 500 true damage + chain overload.

Durability: Single-use

Weight: 12 kg

 Not bad for a one-minute bench job.

 "Rowan!" I pinged. He zipped over, breathing frost, accepted the bore with a grim nod. His quiver down to half.

 Tactical plan: We needed to stagger Guardian, expose the blue core on its right shoulder, plant bore. Stalactites would provide stagger.

 Rowan dashed, baiting beam again. This time crossbow-bolts from surviving Ironclad mirrored his arc, peppering the titan's feet—accidental synergy. Guardian turned, stomped into Hedrum's tripwire.

 BOOM—BOOM—BOOM.

 Explosives sheared ice floor; weight shift detonated overhead icicles. They plummeted like crystal lances, riddling the Guardian's back. The titan arched, blue core venting steam.

 "Window!" I shouted. Rowan grappled shoulder ridge, sprinted vertical like mad squirrel. At core he slammed the bore, twisted crank, leapt away. White-blue flash swallowed a tenth of the cavern; everyone shielded eyes.

Critical! Ice Core Integrity 0 %

Guardian overall integrity 100 → 68 %

Elemental Overload: Movement speed –20 %

 The Frost gauge evaporated; shards blew outward, pelting Ironclad—and us—but mostly cosmetic.

The third core — Lightning

 Now violet spoke flared. Electricity spider-webbed across guardian's limbs. Strikes leapt to metal surfaces—torsion gears, Dungrim's hammer, even the mythril chests. One arc nailed the containment field we'd used earlier, blowing glass panes to gravel and freeing the twelve trapped magi.

 Liberated magi wasted zero time; they targeted us, perhaps thinking revenge more pressing than boss mechanics. Firebolts and chain-lightning streaked.

 "Hedrum, smoke!" I ducked behind a chest. Dwarf popped a canister; grey haze flooded.

 We had bigger issue: violet lightning sought conductive heights—our extraction beacon towered six metres, pure mythril. One zap and our mining rights turned to dust.

 "Zara, beacon surge limit?"

 "Two mega-joules. That thing's output is twenty."

 I cursed. Well then—make beacon the weapon.

 Idea: Overcharge beacon with lightning, redirect through ground into Guardian's last core. But we needed a return path.

 I sprinted through smoke to beacon base, pried a grounding cable loose, dragged spool out like a livewire snake. Lightning cracked overhead, missing by meters.

 Rowan provided cover, arrows knocking magi concentration. Dungrim, still half-bound, roared incoherent rage but couldn't reach us; he settled for bludgeoning an unlucky healer who tried to cut him free.

 I embedded grounding spike into shattered ice trench beneath the Guardian's foot. Liora hurled alchemical alkali to make path hyper-conductive.

 "Ready!" I shouted.

 Zara toggled beacon to Reverse Harvest—a maintenance mode meant to bleed off charge during thunder-storms. Lightning rod effect engaged. The next violet arc chose the tallest shiny object: our beacon.

 Cra-KA-THOOM!

 Beacon flared white. Charge screamed down cable, raced under Guardian, then roared up into violet core at its halo apex. A corona of purple exploded, crackling like a downed power station.

Electrical Feedback! Lightning Core Overload

Integrity 68 % → 22 %

Guardian Stunned (6 s)

 Too low; we needed zero.

 Rowan, eyes wild, nocked his last Storm-splinter—the initial arrow type that split into six. Overcharged environment meant surge risk; arrow could backfire. He drew anyway.

 "I'm paying for your next quiver," I muttered.

 He shot. Mid-flight arrow fractalized into six, each shard trailing plasma. They converged on glowing cracks of violet core. Perfect cluster.

Target hit ×6

Critical Chain Reaction! Lightning Core destroyed.

Guardian integrity 22 % → 1 %

 One percent. Guardian shuddered, tried to reboot.

 Hedrum solved final decimal by charging with hammer raised, screaming a dwarven lullaby. He slammed the halo stump like a blacksmith. Shockwave threw him backward; hammer shattered. Core dust puffed.

Ancient Core Guardian — Omega Configuration Defeated!

World-First Bonus x2 applied (Phase-Two Clear)

XP Awarded: 260 000 (party share)

Unique Title Earned: Heart-Breaker

Legendary Drop Rate boosted +25 %

 Silence.

 Then a sound like glacier calving: the entire titan slumped, plates sliding apart, exposing the central crystal pillar unguarded. The halo disintegrated into sparkles drifting upward, vanishing into Dyson Sphere darkness.

 Rowan lay flat, chest heaving steam. Hedrum laughed until he coughed blood. Liora collapsed cross-legged, stirring nonexistent teacup. Zara leaned on beacon tower, watching XP ticker scroll with accountant joy.

 Across the field Ironclad troops stared, slack-jawed. Some cheered despite themselves—loot trumped pride. Dungrim merely breathed, eyes full of murder.

Loot Cascade

 System created a cyclone of data above the corpse: hexagonal loot crates shimmering gold, purple, crimson. They orbited, then rained.

 But Beacon rights meant only we could claim for first five minutes. Our HUD timers started 4:59.

 Liora squeaked, sprinting for nearest chest. I grabbed her collar. "Teams of two. Catalog first, open second. We still have enemies."

 Indeed, Ironclad survivors regrouped near west arch, whispering. Their magi mass-buffed haste; bruisers re-taped broken armor. They smelled second chance.

 Dungrim's quick-stone cracked fully; his arms tore free. He stooped, scooped his fallen obsidian hammer pieces, pressing them together. The shards fused—damn artifact self-repair.

 Rowan whispered, "Five minutes will feel like five years."

 "Then make five years expensive," I said. "We open center chest now—show them table stakes."

 We hefted lid together. Light spilled: heart-crystal ingots, each a bar of frosted starlight. Market value insane—my HUD refrained from calculating, scared.

 On top rested a device: miniature Heart-Drill bite sized, labeled . Tool-tip:

Consumable — plants a portable extraction node on any Tier-S ore deposit, doubling yield.

Charges: 1

Soul-bound to first toucher.

 Soul-bound meant safer from theft. I tapped it. Bound to me.

 Timer 3 : 44.

The uneasy truce

 Dungrim limped forward alone, hammer across shoulders. "You've got your trophy, gnome. Share the mountain's heart. I'll call cease-fire."

 I wiped blood from visor. "You attacked first, sabotaged our contracts, broke my pick, threatened my family." I shook head. "Pay severance—then we talk."

 He snarled. "Name it."

 "Thirty percent of all heart-ore we haul today goes to Union widows' fund. You sign contract public." I tossed a rune parchment prepared weeks ago—fantasy union bargaining at its finest.

 Murmurs rippled in Ironclad ranks—many looked relieved. Battle-tired greed overlapped with decency.

 Dungrim's gauntlet clenched. Pride warred with pragmatism. He opened mouth—

 —and Liora screamed.

 Behind us, one of the mythril chests sprouted spider-legs, scuttling. Not mimic—rogue loot snatcher spell from freed magi. They'd animated chest to haul heart-ore off while we negotiated.

 Rowan loosed arrow, pinning chest leg. Hedrum body-slammed it, lid snapped open mid-air, spilling bars like silver rain.

 Cease-fire shattered.

 Ironclad bruisers charged, some still wearing our quick-stone patches as armbands. Their magi lobbed suppressing fireballs, ignoring Dungrim's half-finished treaty gesture.

 I yelled, "Beacon priority! Defend or lose mining rights!"

 Our party formed wedge. Zara toggled beacon shield bubble; translucent hex dome rose, radius three metres. Under its aegis we herded spilled ore inside, while Rowan and Hedrum held entrance. Arrows and keg bombs vs axes and lightning.

 Dungrim, caught in the middle, cursed both sides, finally picked a side—his. He bull-rushed beacon personally, maybe thinking capture = salvage dignity.

 He crashed into Rowan. Bow snapped. Rowan parried with a half-drawn short-sword, sparks flying. Dungrim lifted hammer overhead for killing blow—

 —and convulsed. Quick-stone shards still embedded in his pauldrons reacted to beacon field, crystallising anew, locking arms at weird angles. He howled, hammer dropped. Hedrum capitalised: one uppercut to chin.

 Dungrim toppled unconscious at my feet.

Player DungrimIronheart incapacitated (Stun 45 s)

Bounty Objective Optional — Capture Leader

 I wasn't a murderer. I slapped binding cuffs—loot from earlier containment field—around his gauntlets. With magi's leadership down, Ironclad morale crumbled. They retreated, dragging wounded, leaving a smouldering no-man's land.

 Beacon timer hit zero. Access opened to all players on scene, but we still held position and Dungrim hostage. Negotiations resumed quickly under new auspices.

The final ledger

 Union clause accepted: thirty percent widow fund, ten percent hazard stipend to neutral healers, seventy for discoverers split fifty-fifty between our five and Ironclad survivors who hadn't tried chest-theft. Magi who cast snatcher spell forfeited shares—peer justice can be brutal.

 Contract signed, notarised by Sphere's AI (a spectral quill). Global chat cheered or cursed; speculators tracked ore market already spiking.

 System stinger popped:

Negotiated Settlement Reached — Heart of the Mountain Resource Partition

Server-wide economic modifier: Mythril supply +8 % (30 d)

Reputation Shift: Companions of the Core +200 (all labour factions)

Title Unlocked: Union Foreman (Passive: +5 % contract payout)

 Union Foreman. Had a nice ring.

 Rowan exhaled exhaustion and wonder. "We actually pulled it off."

 Liora hugged the nearest crystal ingot like a teddy bear. Zara already tabulated distribution; her eyes glowed greed-math.

 Hedrum checked Dungrim's bindings. "This one will wake cranky."

 "Better cranky than tyrant," I said. I thumbed party cord rings still around wrists—sparked once, dimmed. Bond of the Deep lasted until quest complete or death. We were alive. Quest bar flashed Complete at last.

Post-battle epilogue

 As we loaded ore into Gus's remote-piloted forge golem (which had finally trundled into chamber after stuck behind debris), the central pillar dimmed, drained of harmonic light but still majestic. I took a quiet moment, hand on its cool surface, Ore Sense muted but purring, as though the mountain whispered: Debt repaid? Not yet, but vein runs strong.

 Up above, system clock neared dawn in real world. My siblings would soon wake, expecting breakfast, not knowing their future simmered inside a virtual cart.

 I pinged Old Gus offline, sent quick summary: Guardian down. Heart safe. Driller held. See you topside. He replied with three hammer emojis and a prayer gear.

 Rowan approached, offering my broken bow—snapped glider limb. "Souvenir."

 "Keep. Turn into wall trophy."

 He smiled, tired. "Normal miners celebrate with beer, not titan cores."

 "Da. But we're overtime employees." I glanced at the unconscious Dungrim, at crates of heart-crystal, at beacon humming quiet victory. "Shift's over. Pay-day starts."

 System opened last prompt:

Would you like to log Resource Haul to Real-World Exchange?

Y/N

 I didn't press yet. There would be paperwork, transfer fees, maybe shady brokers; debts rarely die easy. But the button existed, luminous, achievable.

 Above us, Dyson Sphere's internal sun angled amber through ceiling fissures, painting the cavern in dawn hues. Light through coal dust—exactly like Gus's mantra.

 I closed my eyes, breathing ozone and fortune. For the first time since Uncle Viktor signed that cursed promissory note, the world felt breathable.

 Tomorrow Dungrim would wake and spit threats, loan sharks would still lurk, and my Ore Sense bug might draw dev scrutiny—but tonight?

 Tonight the mountain's heart beat in sync with mine.

 And it was finally, gloriously, paid in full.

Chapter 27 — Triumph and Treachery

 For a span of heartbeats the Core Chamber felt like a cathedral after mass—gunsmoke haze settling, echoes spent, everyone too rung-out to lift a voice. The wrecked Guardian lay in concentric heaps around the titanium-crystal pillar, its shattered drives still ticking down residual heat. Our extraction beacon hummed a soft F-sharp, banking forty minutes of uncontested mining rights, and for the first time since the shaft drop my pulse found a human tempo.

 Rowan slumped against a fallen breccia slab, head tilted back, eyes shut, a half-smile floating on sweat-slick cheeks. Liora sat cross-legged beside the first of the System-spawned loot trunks, fingers drumming frantic arithmetic on her thigh. Hedrum's breathing wheezed like bellows; he kept one boot planted on Dungrim Ironheart's unconscious chest, just enough pressure to remind the dwarf of his new status as cargo. Zara stood at the beacon console, loupe still in place, cataloguing drop IDs faster than the interface could render thumbnails.

 Me? I just listened—to the absence of alarms, to the faint clink of crystal dust settling on plate, to my own blood thrumming in time with the pillar's distant core. When the weight of victory finally sank into my bones it felt alien, like discovering you'd been carrying a second heart all along.

 The System punctured the hush with a silver fanfare:

LOOT CASCADE INITIATED

Legendary-Tier Containers: 2

Epic-Tier Containers: 6

Rare Resource Nodes: 42

Access Priority: Companions of the Core (04:59)

 Two legendary chests—each larger than a coffin, hinges glowing mithril blue—coalesced beside the pillar. Six smaller epics arrived in a rain of pixel sparks, clattering onto vitrified floor. Around us, dozens of ore outcrops swelled like tumors, raw Heart-crystal extruding through cracks.

 Rowan whistled low. "All this and a wage bonus, da?"

 "Don't jinx it." I flexed cramped fingers, approached the nearest epic chest. "Clock's running."

 Hefting the lid required both Hedrum and me. Seals hissed; faint cryo-steam rolled over our boots. Inside lay matrix-packed ingots the color of frozen lightning—aurichalcum, Tier-S conduit metal worth ten gold per gram. Each bar weighed half a kilo. My HUD ticked dizzy numbers, but I forced the digits out of mind. Money was future. First came sorting, bagging, and living long enough to withdraw.

 We worked in practiced silence. Liora tagged every item with a rune tracker linked to the beacon ledger, ensuring nothing "went missing" once the chamber opened to public traffic. Zara fed serial hashes into her spreadsheet, updating payout percentages. For a blessed three minutes there were no threats, just honest labor at the end of a titanic overtime shift.

 Then the murmurs started.

 Across the chamber's west archway, where we'd herded Ironclad survivors hours—or was it minutes?—earlier, shapes edged into the torchlight. A dozen bruisers, armor scorched but serviceable, gathered behind two remaining guild healers. Their eyes flickered between the loot trunks and Dungrim's inert form. Greed beat fatigue every time.

 Rowan stiffened. "Red tags regaining courage."

 "Ignore them." I slotted another ingot into the golem cart. "We have law on our side and a signed contract."

 "Law bends to iron bars," he muttered.

 He wasn't wrong. The beacon's union contract granted us majority share, but the Game's physics engine didn't care for parchment. If Ironclad rushed us and broke enough bodies before the five-minute exclusivity expired, they could still sweep half the chamber.

 Hedrum spat a glob of blood, addressing the dwarves with casual menace. "Any of ye want seconds, step within reach o' me boot."

 For a breath they hesitated. Then Dungrim groaned, eyes snapping open. Quick-stone cuffs glowed dull amber where Zara's rune welds held, but the dwarf lord's glare could've melted basalt. He twisted under Hedrum's foot, coughed grit, and rasped: "Ironclad… to me."

 The ranks straightened instinctively. Even broken, their leader's voice magnetized willpower.

 Rowan drew arrow to cheek. "He wakes, we lose calm."

 "I'll sedate him," Liora said, uncorking a soporific vial.

 Too late. Dungrim bared teeth rimed with blood. "You—gnome—think signatures bind me? Miners' law is hammered in steel!" He slammed his manacled fists onto stone. Quick-stone spider-webbed, cracks racing outward. A tremor rippled beneath the beacon.

 System flashed yellow:

Structural Integrity Warning:

Localized Seismic Distortion — Source: External Force

 Zara cursed and shifted her weight away from the beacon chassis. "If he collapses the floor we lose ore, beacon, everything."

 "Rowan," I said, "knock him out."

 Arrow tip kissed Dungrim's forehead. The dwarf laughed, a raw gargle. "Shoot, and my boys paint the pillar with your marrow."

 I believed him. Their bruisers bristled, axes tightening.

 "Hold," I said, raising palms. "Dungrim. You break contract, sphere AI flags you outlaw. Guards spawn, bounty posted. You'll respawn in irons."

 He spat. "I'd rather respawn than live kneeling to a wretch who steals what dwarves forged."

 An old proverb flickered: Pride kills miners quicker than gas.

 Beacon timer read 02:11.

 Negotiation had seconds. I scanned field: chests half-emptied, golem cart loaded sixty percent, Heart-crystal nodes unharvested. Too much left to abandon. But fight now and all profits burn.

 "Pivot plan," I whispered on party channel. "We accelerate extraction, then bail through north service tunnel. Rowan, cover. Hedrum, drag cart. Zara, remote the beacon auto-withdraw. Liora—watch Dungrim with half an eye."

 They acknowledged.

 Zara toggled a hidden console string; beacon emitted a bass pulse, retracting anchors and distilling collected rights into a compact crystal ledger. Thirty seconds to stow.

 Rowan loosed a bluff arrow at Ironclad's feet. "Next shaft pierces lung."

 Bruisers growled yet held. Neither side wanted new wounds.

 Twenty-five seconds.

 Dungrim's gaze flicked from beacon to the ledger core forming above it—shimmering jewel containing all contract hashes. That gem represented enforceable ownership. And, I realized, a single point of failure. Destroy ledger; nullify agreement.

 His eyes narrowed with the same conclusion.

 He surged. Quick-stone cuffs strained, micro-fissures spidering. Hedrum's boot skidded; the dwarf jefe rolled, smashing shoulder into Hedrum's shin. Our dwarf roared, stumbled.

 Ledger crystal solidified at beacon tip, delicate as spun glass.

 Dungrim lunged.

 I moved without thinking—sprint, slide, shoulder slam. Impact jarred my teeth; we crashed in a tangle. The ledger bobbled skyward. Dungrim's heel kicked my gut; breath whooshed out. I grappled his arms but strength differential catastrophic.

 Rowan shouted, arrow clacking off Dungrim's spaulder, ricocheting.

 Ledger core hovered at chest height, unattached, one fingertip away from a tyrant's fist.

 Dungrim's lips peeled into triumph. "No contract, no claim!"

 Hedrum barreled in, but distance too great.

 Dungrim swung his manacled wrists like a mace—

 —and Liora appeared, plant-green hair whipping, empty vial still in hand. She smashed glass across the ledger. Not to break it—vial shattered against the dwarf's knuckles instead, releasing pearlescent spores. They clung, eating quick-stone, infiltrating gauntlet seams. Dungrim roared, muscles freezing as sedative fungus saturated micro-fissures. Arms locked mid-arc, mere centimeters shy of the ledger.

 The gem drifted, unharmed, settling back onto beacon cradle with a gentle chime.

 System prompt blinked:

Contract Ledger Stabilised

Beacon Safeguard: Active

 Timer: 00:04.

 I rolled off Dungrim, chest heaving. Rowan yanked ledger into a secure socket. Beacon emitted final tone, shrinking into palm-sized rod—Auto-withdraw complete.

 Exclusive access ended. Five-minute shroud lifted; the chamber became open game.

 Ironclad bruisers, seeing their advantage evaporate, hesitated—then saw Dungrim immobilized, fungus petrifying his armor. Their morale imploded like a tunnel support kicked free. One by one they sheathed axes, dragging wounded, retreating to west arch. None looked back.

 A distant System broadcast acknowledged surrender:

Faction Ironclad—Main Detachment

Status: Combat Disengaged

Penalty: Reputation –250 (Labor Factions)

 Silence rushed in like tide after a ship wake.

 We didn't cheer. Too tired. Instead we resumed loading, motions economical, hearts hammered thin but steady. In seven more minutes, cart full, beacon stowed, we were ready.

 Rowan nodded at Dungrim's rigid form. "Leave or escort?"

 Hedrum flexed bruised shin. "Drag 'im topside. Show the Union he bleeds like the rest."

 "Can't." I rubbed sternum where boot print blossomed. "Carrying him slows escape. Ironclad still has scouts. And I'm not jailor."

 Liora knelt beside the dwarf. "Spore sedation lasts ninety minutes. He'll wake alone, miss the loot rush, rage eternal." She patted Dungrim's helm. "A petty mercy."

 Zara set ledger rod into a shielded pouch. "Decision made. We move."

 We formed procession: Hedrum leading forge golem cart, its treads crunching glassy debris; Rowan rear guard, arrow nocked; Liora mid-line with emergency tonics; Zara and I steering by Ore Sense whispers to avoid aftershocks. North service tunnel beckoned—a ribbed tube spiraling upward, marked by dormant glowlamps.

 Halfway to arch, System klaxon erupted scarlet:

Warning: Integrity Node Failure

Core Chamber Ceiling Collapse Imminent (120 s)

Suggested Action: Evacuate Zone

 Of course. Guardian's death throes plus Dungrim's seismic stunts had compromised supports.

 "Double-time!" I barked.

 Golem gears whined; cart spewed sparks. We sprinted. Behind us, first stalactite the length of a bus sheared loose, pulverizing floor where beacon once stood. Shockwave chased our heels.

 Rowan's arrow snapped taut into wall, line assisting ascent across a broken catwalk. Liora vault-rolled, nearly dropping tonic crate. Hedrum powered forward, dwarven lungs bellowing tavern chants as encouragement.

 At ninety-second mark we breached tunnel throat. Chamber behind shuddered; a roar like tectonic applause thundered. Dust gusted up shaft, pelting our backs.

 But rock above held. We rode elevator platform, antique gears grinding. Each meter upward lightened lungs, though weight in satchels reminded me freedom had mass.

 Elevator stopped two kilometers higher at a logistics depot—abandoned loading bay once used by Sphere engineers. Rails led to main tram network back toward settlement.

 We slumped in a ring, surrounded by crates of ore bright as caged dawn.

 Rowan broke the hush. "Inventory check."

 Zara opened ledger rod; holographic inventory scrolled:

Heart-Crystal Ingots: 64

Aurichalcum Bars: 51

Titanium-Mythril Composite Rods: 38

Raw Mythril Ore (unprocessed): 129 kg

Artifact Items:

Core Seed Extractor (1) Pulse-Forge Capacitor (Unique, 100 % charge) Glimmer Cloak of the First Driller (Epic)

Total Market Valuation: ≈ 8,470 gold

 Eight thousand gold—roughly 1.3 million rubles, or enough USD to incinerate our family debt and salt the ashes. My vision blurred, not from dust. Anna's violin lessons paid, Mitya's dental surgery booked, rent a breathable number. One more withdrawal and the real world would taste new-minted air.

 Liora sniffled, wiped eyes. Rowan looked away politely.

 Hedrum uncorked final celebration keg. "I promised mis beard froth on mountain's heart, and so!" Foam sprayed, froth sizzling on hot gear housings. We drank in turns—thick, malty, medicinal.

 Even Zara allowed a sip before resuming accountant mode. "Transport weight at limit. Tram ride will broadcast manifest to track controllers; Ironclad could hijack mid-run."

 Rowan tugged beard stubble. "Detour by maintenance rails, slower but stealth."

 I shook head. "Loan sharks' clock ticks. Need funds wired tonight. Straight shot to Flintspar bank."

 Risk vs urgency—the Osadchuk grind equation.

 Decision crystallized. "We split convoy. Hedrum and I take primary cart direct to Flintspar, escrow deposit. Rowan, Liora, Zara ferry second cache through maintenance rails as decoy load. If Ironclad intercepts main line, they find less than half. If they sniff side rail, they get mirrored crumbs."

 Zara raised brow. "And ledger?"

 I tapped pouch. "Stays with me—deposit demands original ledger."

 No objections. Plan set.

 We redistributed weight: most aurichalcum to cart A, mythril ore split, artifacts with me. Cart B disguised under scrap ore tarp. We exchanged hearth-stone coordinates to rendezvous outside city walls.

 Everyone silent a moment, processing risk branching.

 Rowan broke tension with soft chuckle. "We five walked into a myth's lungs and came out with its stolen breath. Whatever happens on tracks is child's play."

 "Da," I said, tapping his arrow pouch. "Keep that bravado loaded. Children bite."

 He grinned wolfish.

 *** *** ***

 Tram departure platform yawed like subway mezzanine carved from oaken bronze. Ancient railcars—six-metre flatbeds on mono-mag lev skates—rested in cradle clamps. We ran pre-checks; capacitors still held charge. Track map winked red on Central Spur—our direct line. Side maintenance routes flickered yellow, indicating partial power.

 Cart A latched to Car-01; cart B to Car-02. Rowan and I exchanged grip-lock handshake, palms rough as grinder discs.

 "See you topside," he said.

 "Bring extra coffee," I replied.

 Rails powered; field coils hummed. Car-01 lurched forward, acceleration pressing me and Hedrum against bulkhead. Tunnel mouth swallowed us, bluish flux lamps strobing.

 Speed built: 40 km/h… 70… 120. HUD displayed estimated arrival 22 minutes.

 Wind whipped hair; metal sang.

 Six minutes in, track sensors pinged hazard:

Rail Segment 42-B: Obstruction Detected

Emergency Brake Recommended

 I queried rear cams—projection showed collapsed girder across rails.

 Hedrum barked laugh. "Sabotage signature—Ironclad or weeping mountain?"

 "Doesn't matter." I tapped manual override, throttled back to 60. "Brace."

 We coasted into obstacle sight. Girder thick as a man's torso angled across track, ends fused by plasma—too neat for random rockfall.

 Hedrum hefted sledge. "Ten swings."

 "No time." I scanned junction node ahead: service siding branched around obstruction but required manual switch flip from trackside console.

 I killed engines at twenty meters, hopped off, boots skidding sparks. Console corroded but active. I jammed lever; gears clanked. Car-01 auto-navigated onto siding.

 Relief flickered—until my minimap rendered fresh hostiles: three red icons descending maintenance stairwell, 180 meters, velocity rapid.

 Ironclad.

 I sprinted back aboard. Hedrum already spooled engines for max torque. Red names resolved: two bruisers, one healer. They skidded onto siding, axes out, screaming orders. Too late.

 Car-01 rocketed past, 0-100 in four seconds. Crossbow bolts pinged hull.

 "Not children," Hedrum snorted.

 Twenty seconds later track re-merged with main. We regained schedule.

 *** *** ***

 Thirteen minutes from Flintspar our luck—always a negotiable commodity—took sick leave.

 HUD screamed:

Incoming Projectile Detected

Origin: Rail Drone VB-77

Impact ETA: 00:04

 Drone? I spun. Behind, distant glimmer resolved into mag-skate drone carriage, crimson Ironclad livery. Turret mount tracked us—siege bolt launcher.

 Four seconds remained.

 "Hedrum—zigzag impossible."

 He gripped controls anyway. "Hold barrel."

 I tugged artifact capacitor from pack—the Pulse-Forge. Could overload, fry electronics in cone. Range? Probably short.

 I clambered to car rear platform, hinged bracket open. Drone 300 meters and closing. Turret muzzle flashed. Bolt, meter-long, screamed overhead, missing by whisker, ricocheting into tunnel wall showering sparks.

 I jammed capacitor onto railing, orientation approximate. Thumbed manual discharge.

 Air turned ion blue; smell of burnt copper. A fan-shaped EMP wave zipped down rail. Drone lights guttered, propulsion cut. It keeled sideways, skittering as sparks, crashed into wall. Explosion rattled carriage.

 System ping:

Enemy Asset Destroyed

XP +1,200

 I exhaled.

 Capacitor smoked, energy zero. Single-use had paid.

 We thundered onward. City-server handshake triggered; overlay displayed customs scan ahead. Aurora of security sigils swept cart, confirmed cargo manifest.

 Flintspar station—a vaulted cavern of iron trusses—opened like sunrise. We coasted, brakes whining, sparks showering platform.

 Dockhands gawked at ore mountain. I leapt off, ledger ready. Bank clerk NPC in emerald tabard hurried over, eyes bulging.

 "Processing escrow high-value deposit," I declared, voice ragged. "Union Foreman priority."

 He bowed, initiated chain of authentication windows faster than mortal bankers dream.

 Minutes bled. Fingerprint sigil, eye-scan, ore weight verification. Each step felt like chisel tapping dynamite—one wrong code and everything exploded.

 Then the line I'd chased across months glinted:

Deposit Confirmed

8,470 Gold Credited → Real-World Transfer Queue

ETA: 01:30 (bank business hours overlap)

 I sagged, legs gelatin. Hedrum whooped, hugging me hard enough ribs cracked.

 We weren't free yet, but the check had cleared.

 *** *** ***

 Two hours later, outside Flintspar's northern gate, stars rotated inside Dyson night. A wagon rumbled up maintenance road—Cart-B convoy. Rowan at reins, cloak dusty; Liora asleep on pile of empty tonic bottles; Zara clutching datapad of ledgers like mother hen. They'd made it.

 Reunion quiet, relief too heavy for words. We formed campfire from scrap pallets; nobody spoke beyond necessary.

 At dawn's first pallid glow, System ping infiltrated half-dream:

World Event Concluded: Heart of the Mountain

Global Newsfeed unlocked

 Chat howled with speculation, markets already volatile. We ignored.

 Instead we planned surface trek, schedule to meet courier for real-world transfer confirmation. Sleep overcame.

 *** *** ***

 I woke to cold steel kissing spine.

 Time hadn't registered; sky still twilight. Campfire embers whispered. My HUD flickered—someone had disabled proximity alarms with admin-level code.

 A breath behind me, smelling of stone dust and rage.

 Dungrim Ironheart.

 He stood free, fungus sedation burned away, cuffs sheared. No armor—just sweat-slick muscles, obsidian dagger glinting faint sunrise. His other hand covered my mouth.

 "Quiet, little burrower," he rasped into my ear, voice shot with venom and shame. "One shout and your friends bleed before they wake."

 Rowan slept four meters off, bow across knees. Liora spooned tonic crate. Hedrum snored thunderous on his back, hammer within arm's reach but head tilted wrong way. Zara dozed upright against ledger bag.

 Dungrim tightened grip. "You robbed my lifeblood. Today I take yours."

 I angled eyes toward dagger, calculated angle to break grip—risk high. Ore Sense pinged mild; ground beneath sleepers stable but weapon angles mapped bright red.

 He pressed blade; HUD bleeped -2 HP from skin nick.

 "Any last words—gnome?"

 No subheadings, no safe choices left; only instinct and payback born of months hunched under mountain weight.

 I inhaled through his palm—scent of iron and spilled fortunes—and felt a calm older than debts settle in my gut.

 Then I bit his hand, hard.

 Dungrim roared; grip loosened; I twisted, booted his knee, rolled away. Dagger slashed air where neck had been.

 Rowan jerked awake. "Alarm!" he barked in Slav-tinged English, arrow already half-drawn.

 Hedrum surged, hammer swinging from prone.

 Liora fumbled vials; Zara clutched ledger bag.

 Dungrim dropped into fighter stance, dagger reverse-gripped, eyes wild.

 For one suspended breath sunrise caught on mythril ingots, painting camp in molten gold—a tableau of victory balanced on edge of betrayal.

 And the dwarf lunged, blade arcing toward my ribs.

 *** *** ***

 System prompt froze mid-screen:

Combat Instance Triggered

Duel: Dungrim Ironheart vs Orefinder

Win Condition: Survive

 Cliff-edge lull before steel meets flesh.

 Chapter ends, debt unpaid in blood.