Chapter 31 — Debt Paid in Full

The apartment was still dark when the VR pod seals hissed open, but it felt brighter than any dawn I'd seen from the Sphere's artificial sun. My joints popped as I hauled myself upright—six real-world hours in haptic suspension will do that—but the ache rode shotgun to a deeper, sweeter sting: the timer on my banking holoscreen read 00 h 12 m 03 s. Twelve minutes until the transfer landed.

I padded into the kitchenette, careful not to wake the kids. The radiator rattled like a drunk balalaika; condensation painted frost ferns on the cracked window. A month ago that sound had been a threat—another bill I couldn't pay. Tonight it was just background noise. I clicked the kettle, spooned the dregs of instant into a chipped mug, then caught myself and laughed. The pot in Flintspar had brewed liquid gold; I could afford beans that didn't taste like burnt cardboard now. Old habits mined deeper than any tunnel.

While the water boiled I opened the tablet on the counter and keyed in my exchange account. The UI looked almost identical to the in-game bank, minus the stone-carved borders. Same corporate font, same little loading rune spinning in the top corner. And there, pulsing green:

Incoming Transfer Status: Clearing

45 823 Gold → $ 655 732.07 USD

Fee: 4 % ETA: 00 h 10 m 57 s

I exhaled slow. Half a million dollars. The number hovered over the screen like a second sun, dazzling but cold—the kind of figure you didn't say out loud in our neighborhood unless you wanted a crowbar dentist visiting at night.

A floorboard creaked. Mitya shuffled in, hair a tornado, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "Bro, it's still dark. Why're you laughing like a cartoon villain?"

"Couldn't sleep," I whispered. He yawned, glanced at the kettle, and brightened. "Midnight coffee! Can I have one drop?"

I ruffled his hair. "When you can bench-press a pickaxe, maybe. Go back to bed. Big math test tomorrow."

"Fine." He shuffled off, but paused at the door. "Did you win?"

I thought about that scoreboard—about the Guardian shattered, the ore stacked, Dungrim's dagger clattering harmless at my feet.

"Da," I said. "I finally won."

His grin could have powered a city block. Then he vanished down the hall.

* *

00 h 00 m 00 s. The screen flashed Transfer Complete. No fanfare, just a subdued chime—corporate minimalism for life-changing events. My checking balance updated, zeros marching like fresh recruits. I stared until the after-image etched my retina.

Step one finished. Step two required courage of a different sort. I thumbed open my contacts, scrolled past "School Nurse," "Discount Plumbing," "Landlord," until I hit Grigor (Ice-Bear)—the loan shark's field captain. A polar bear emoji blinked beside the name. I'd added it the night he warned me to keep payments flowing or watch my uncle's kneecaps flow the other direction.

The call answered on the second ring. Grigor's voice rumbled like diesel. "Money man. Tell me you're not waking me for excuses."

"No excuses. Full payment. Today."

Silence, then a slow chuckle. "You found another magic rock, little gnome?"

"Something like that. Park behind the Zavod supermarket in two hours. Come alone or don't come."

Another pause. "You're giving orders now?"

"Only one I'll give. Take it or walk."

He laughed again, deeper. "Bold. I like bold. See you soon."

The line died. I leaned against the fridge and counted heartbeats until my pulse stopped hammering. Two hours. I filled a thermos, grabbed the fire-worn courier bag, and slipped a battered paperback into the side pocket—War and Peace with half the pages missing. Tolstoy weighed less than a pistol and made a better legal defense.

* *

Snow flurries drifted through sodium street-lamps as I trudged the four blocks to Zavod. The city slept under a crust of February ice; only the occasional taxi carved yellow arcs across the slush. I kept my hood low, breath plume curling like smoke from a kiln.

Zavod's loading bay loomed—graffitied concrete, dumpsters stacked against frost-bitten pallets. A lone SUV idled by the dead bulbs, engine murmuring. No other silhouettes; Grigor had honored the "come alone" clause, or he'd hidden backup smart enough to stay out of sight. Either was fine. I had numbers on my side—for once, numeric trust instead of muscle.

He stepped out, wool coat swallowing his broad shoulders. Scar under one eye, same as ever. "Two AM payday. Romantic."

"Let's finish the courtship." I swung the courier bag onto the hood and unzipped. Inside, a slim holo-projector blinked blue. I tapped it; a ledger display floated up, listing the debt in crimson.

Amount owed: $ 102 842

Late penalties: $ ―

Total due: $ 102 842

I thumbed Authorize. The screen flickered; numbers rolled to zero.

Transfer Receipt

Sender: [REDACTED] Routing 0910-88

Recipient: Ice-Bear Holdings LLC

Amount: $ 102 842.00 USD

Status: Settled

Grigor's eyes flicked left to right, verifying. Then he whistled. "Didn't think you'd pull it off." He pulled a folded contract from his coat—my uncle's debt note, smeared with oily fingerprint logos—and struck a lighter. Flame lapped the paper until only black petals drifted onto the snow.

"Clean slate," he said, stomping the ashes. "You've got guts. And a talent our organization could use."

There it was. The recruitment. I shook my head. "Done digging for other men's profit."

"Mnh." He studied me like a jeweler eyeing an uncut gem. "Maybe you'll change your mind when rent rises again."

I met his gaze, steady. "Rent won't be an issue."

"Then we part friends." He extended a meaty hand. I shook it, surprise tingling; his grip could have cracked walnuts yet held no malice, only business concluded.

Snowflakes hissed on the SUV's hood. He climbed in, window rolling down halfway. "One favor." He tossed a small card; it slapped into my palm. Black plastic, silver star logo—Midnight eSports Casino. "Play a hand sometime. House odds aren't as cruel as life."

"Pass." I pocketed the card anyway. The SUV growled off, taillights disappearing into swirling white.

When the sound faded, the street felt wider, air lighter. I drew a breath so deep it hurt, as though my lungs had forgotten capacity beyond survival sips.

* *

I reached the apartment just as dawn tinted the clouds ash-rose. Anna sat at the table, violin balanced on her knee, scraping through scales sotto voce so as not to wake Mitya. She caught my entrance, froze mid-bow.

"You're up early," I said.

She frowned. "And you never went to bed."

"Had errands." I set the kettle again—this time I pulled a sealed bag from my coat: real Kenyan beans, bought on the walk back. Her eyes widened.

"Where did you get those?"

"Promotion," I lied, then sighed. "No. Truth is better." I pulled the tablet from the inner pocket, angled it so she could read the balance.

Digits glowed. She blinked, mouth forming a silent oh.

"It's paid," I said. "Toda, za vse."—it's done, for everything.

Her bow slipped; the violin thunked against her chair. For three heartbeats she sat motionless, then flung arms around my neck, trembling. I hugged back, sudden wetness stinging my own eyes.

Mitya burst from the hall, pillow fort hair bristling. "What happened? Did the apartment explode?"

Anna laughed—startled, tear-cracked. "It exploded with coffee beans!"

"Real ones?" He darted to the bag, inhaled. "Smells like those cafés downtown."

"Better," I said. "Smells like future."

We brewed. Kids had cocoa, I took coffee strong enough to melt spoon coating. We toasted with mismatched mugs. When steam fogged my glasses I let it blur the world into one smudge of relief.

* *

By noon Uncle Yura called from the rehab ward. Static crackled over the ancient hospital line, but his voice carried a brittle hope. "Is it true? Grigor said papers are clear."

"It's true."

"You saved my worthless hide," he whispered. "I—" Words caught. He tried again. "I wanted to be the hero for once."

"You're family," I said. "Heroics come later. First you get healthy."

"I'll pay you back."

"No debt left to pay." I smiled. "But maybe you can teach Mitya chess again. He misses losing."

He barked a cough-laugh. "Deal. Spasibo, sobrino."

The call ended. I stared at the phone, wondering how a number could weigh so little yet drag such chains behind it.

* *

Late afternoon, after siblings left for school, I booted the VR pod. One more log-in—this time not to earn, but to close accounts.

Light swallowed me; the familiar HUD flickered into existence. Flintspar's trade hall buzzed with chatter, crystalline banners proclaiming our world-first kill. Players I'd never met flashed thumbs-up emotes as I passed. A dwarf smith shouted, "Oi, Foreman! Your swing broke the Guardian and the market!" I waved, cheeks heating.

I headed for the central rotunda where the game company's official exchange kiosk floated like a marble obelisk. An NPC banker—polished brass automaton—bowed.

"Transaction completed earlier," it chimed. "Would you like to review residual assets?"

"Yes." Inventory tabs unfurled, showing zero gold. Everything liquidated. Only quest trinkets, personal gear, and two curios remained: the Hopeite shard and the unknown Lilac artifact. I hesitated, finger hovering over the artifact. Sell for an extra windfall? But curiosity outweighed greed; some doors opened only once.

"Nothing to sell," I said. "Print full audit for my records."

A parchment scroll materialized, stamped with wax. I tucked it away.

Leaving the hall, I bumped—literally—into Gus. The old dwarf's beard was singed anew, probably from testing the Seedworm's replacement coils. He squinted up. "Heard you cut ties with the money wolves."

"Blade sliced clean." I mimed scissors.

"Good." He thumped my arm. "Means you're free to take proper commissions now. There's a deep-sea drill project needs a man with your pick."

I smiled. "Maybe later. First vacation in…I can't count that high."

"Ha! Time off is a myth. Mountains wait for no miner."

"Mountains can wait," I said. "Family first."

He nodded approval rare as uncut diamonds. "Then go. But remember—the rock remembers who loves it." He pressed a rune-etched chisel into my hand. "Prototype. Titanmyth alloy. A thank-you." He stumped off before I could protest.

The chisel's tooltip glowed:

Item: Gus's Keystone Chisel (Epic)

Durability 240 / 240

Passive: Keystone Strike – 15 % chance to reveal structural weak points on ore veins, increasing yield.

Soulbound – cannot be traded

A farewell gift and a promise of future delves.

I logged out, heart surprisingly heavy. The grind that had shackled me had also shaped me; letting go felt like amputating a limb you'd grown fond of.

* *

Real evening sunlight—real winter gold, not Dyson imitation—slanted across the living-room floor. I opened the balcony door despite the chill, letting city sounds wash in. Car horns, distant church bell, someone arguing about football two blocks away. Ordinary noise, priceless.

The bank app pinged: Loan Account Closed. Another notification popped—this one from the landlord, reminding tenants rent would rise in April. I chuckled. Let it.

I brewed fresh coffee—Kenyan beans again, ground by hand. As it dripped I pulled the battered War and Peace from my bag. Pages fluttered, releasing the scent of ink and old glue. I tore out the remaining half of the first chapter—one of Yura's IOUs scribbled across it in biro—and fed it to the trash. Tolstoy might forgive me.

Mitya burst in after hockey practice, cheeks glowing. "Coach said I skate like a tank now!"

"Good. Tanks never fall."

"Can we afford real skates?" He bit his lip, afraid of hope.

"We can afford a small rink," I said. He whooped, racing down the hall to tell Anna.

I leaned against the doorframe, coffee steaming, eyes stinging. For months I'd pictured this scene so often it had calcified into fantasy. Now it unfolded, messy and perfect.

* *

Night deepened. Kids slept. I sat at the desk with the unknown lilac shard under a lamp. Its symbols shifted like rivers seen from orbit. I thought of all the secrets still buried inside the Sphere—whole libraries of impossible metals, storylines nobody had cracked. I wasn't done with that world. Not by a long shot. But next time I'd dive without a debt noose cinched around my throat.

The shard pulsed, faint as a heartbeat.

A private System whisper scrolled across my vision—faint residual overlay even outside VR, a known side effect of long sessions. <>

I grinned. Research could wait until after breakfast that wasn't noodles.

I closed the notebook, turned off the lamp, and finally, finally let the shift whistle blow.

Shift complete. Debt paid. Vein exhausted? No. The world is endless, and I had the pick to prove it.

Chapter 32 — Family Foundations

The smell of freshly ground coffee drifted through the apartment like a promise that the past year had been a nightmare we'd finally woken from. Real coffee—Kenyan AA beans, roasted yesterday, not the freeze-dried gravel I used to ration by the teaspoon. The grinder's burrs purred while dawn tried to crawl through the blinds, and I let the sound drill into my skull until it pushed out the last phantom echoes of pickaxes and Guardian roars.

Anna padded in first, bare feet scuffing the lino. She stopped halfway to the table, dark hair exploding everywhere, and blinked at the countertop lined with grocery bags. Fresh vegetables, three kinds of bread, a jar of honey fat as a fist. Luxuries that would have fit last week's budget the way an earthquake fits a china cabinet.

"You robbed a market," she said, voice still gravelled with sleep.

"Close," I answered. "I robbed a mountain."

Her brows knitted, the expression of a fifteen-year-old forced to adult too soon. She opened her mouth, but the kettle clicked off, and I poured water over the grounds while steam fogged my glasses. The aroma hit her nose; her shoulders sagged. Whatever explanation she'd planned melted into the smell.

Mitya burst in a heartbeat later, backpack straps dangling like half-shed wings. "Why does it smell like that fancy café on Lomonosova?" He dove toward the bread bags.

"Hands," I warned, then slid a cutting board his way. "You prep the sandwiches. We're not late today."

He froze, eyes saucer-wide. "Wait—we can take lunch instead of cafeteria mush?"

"Every day from now on, brat," I said. "Get used to gourmet."

I filled three mismatched mugs; the kids took theirs with more sugar than coffee, but I didn't scold. We clinked ceramic lightly—no speech, no grand toast. Words would have cheapened it. One swallow and Anna's eyes brightened like steel catching sun.

"Okay," she said. "Explain."

So I did, as simply as numbers allowed. The transfer that cleared in the night. The debt balance reading 0. The balance left over—enough to prepay rent for a year somewhere that didn't cough mold spores into our lungs. The fact that Uncle Yura's hospital account was current and would stay that way.

Mitya's grin stretched until I worried it might snap his cheeks. Anna, though, stared at the swirling coffee as if expecting the digits to scuttle across the surface like oil slick news tickers. Finally she whispered, "It's really gone?"

"Gone, apelsin," I said, using Papa's old nickname for her. "Like a bad dream at noon."

She set her mug down with surgical precision. Then she hugged me—hard enough my ribs protested. I hugged back, and for a moment the kitchen dissolved into salt water and heartbeat thunder. When she let go, she wiped her nose on her sleeve with teenage disgust at public tears. I pretended not to notice.

"Now what?" Mitya demanded, wiping crumbs from his chin.

I pulled a folded flyer from my hoodie pocket—an ad for a two-bedroom flat near their school, radiant-heated floors and no brown water surprises. "We visit a realtor after classes. If the place looks half as good as the photos, we sign. Keys by the weekend."

"Da!" He punched the air, nearly upending the sugar jar. "I'll finally have room for a desk that isn't the couch arm."

"And I can practise without neighbors hammering the wall," Anna added, cradling her violin calluses like secret treasure.

The kettle boiled again; I poured more water just to prolong the silence—peaceful, domestic, alien. I hadn't realized until right then how every breakfast for months had carried a sour undertone: the ticking clock of repayment, the fear that one spoonful too many meant emptier plates tomorrow. The silence now had weight, but it was the weight of blankets on a winter morning—warm, protective.

Mitya slurped his mug empty. "If we're moving, can we get a cat?"

I snorted. "One miracle at a time, kotyonok."

"Cat first, then miracles," he insisted, brandishing a butter knife like a duelist's foil.

I raised both palms. "Negotiable. Finish the sandwiches."

Anna rolled her eyes but couldn't hide her smile. She grabbed her coat, violin case banging her knee. "You coming to the parent conference today?" she asked as casually as someone asking about tea preference.

I flicked a glance at the wall calendar—today's square circled in red months ago, a parent-teacher meeting I'd dreaded missing because of a mining contract. My answer rolled out without hesitation.

"Front row," I said. "Best dressed."

She faked a suspicious squint but her cheeks bloomed pink. "Then wear something without stone dust."

"I'll try."

They bundled out the door moments later, still arguing cat breeds in half-whispers. The lock clicked, and quiet returned, punctured only by the fridge's arthritic rattle. I leaned against the counter and let myself breathe.

In my HUD's memory—phantom overlay only long sessions can summon—another timer lingered:

[Personal Quest] Provide Stable Home

Progress: 70 %

Objective: Secure permanent lodging (0/1 Signed lease)

I blinked; the after-image vanished. But the goal remained—a line item no System would auto-complete. We'd finish it today.

* *

The realtor's office sat above a bakery that smelled of caramelized secrets. Paperwork took an hour of signatures; the deposit cleared instantly, banker's stamp crisp as fresh parchment. We toured the unit: second-floor walk-up, sun-washed walls, radiators that didn't sob, and windows that actually sealed. The kids examined every cabinet like archaeologists. When Anna found a narrow alcove perfect for a music stand, she looked at me and I nodded. Deal sealed.

While the realtor gathered copies, I leaned on the balcony rail, phone chiming real-world alerts louder than System pings ever did. New balance after deposits, furniture budget accounted for, leftover still robust. I texted Uncle Yura a photo of the keys. His reply came as a shaky selfie—him holding thumbs-up, IV lines sprouting like antennae, grin wide despite hospital pallor. Proud of you, søbrina. Pay forward.

I typed Get rehab. We need chess rematch. He responded with the rook emoji, then a chain of flame emojis. Typical.

Back inside, Mitya poked a power outlet. "Electric works!" he announced, as if discovering nuclear fission.

Anna traced a finger along the kitchen counter—laminate, but un-scarred. "We can paint," she said dreamily. "Something bright. Peach?"

"Peach?" Mitya gagged. "Gamer green."

"Peach," she repeated with terrifying finality. I shrugged—some battles aren't mine.

We lugged boxes for the rest of the afternoon. My spine threatened mutiny, but each crate felt lighter than credits in an MMO inventory—we were trading encumbrance for ownership. Neighbors eyed us curiously; one babushka offered borscht ladled into plastic tubs "for strength." I accepted with a bow that would've earned charisma points had my hidden debuff extended to real life.

Evening settled amber over the skyline. I set my phone to speaker and dialed Nina—the landlord of the old flat—and gave notice. Her surprise turned to congratulation when I offered last month's rent early plus a week overlap. Cutting cords clean, no scorched earth.

Boxes stacked ceiling-high, the kids begged for takeaway to christen the place. I vetoed fried noodles—they'd had enough of those to qualify for honorary citizenship in the Republic of Ramen—and instead unwrapped groceries. Twenty minutes later, pasta bubbled, garlic perfumed the room, and Anna practised chords in the corner, each note pinging off new walls like exploratory sonar.

Mitya set the table, humming the Endless Worlds login jingle. He caught me grinning.

"What?"

"Nothing," I said. "Just sounds different outside the headset."

"Better?"

"Realer."

He considered, shrugged, and resumed humming.

* *

Over dinner—bowls heaped, borscht as honorary side—I told them the full story. Not every stat window, not the hidden perk, but the arc: the loan, the mines, the Guardian's fall, the narrow duel with a dwarf twice my avatar's size. Their eyes widened, noodles forgotten.

When I reached the part about hauling half a ton of mythril past collapsing tunnels, Mitya leapt up, brandishing an invisible pickaxe. "I want to try!" he cried. "I'll make a warrior like you."

"Miner," I corrected. "And you have homework."

Anna propped her chin on her fist. "So the news threads are true. Companions of the Core—the gnome hero is my brother."

I winced. "It'll blow over. VR scandals refresh hourly."

She shook her head. "You don't get it. Half my class thinks you're fake marketing. The others think you're a sweatshop team in China."

I laughed so hard I nearly snorted pasta. "Da, behold my sweatshop of one."

But her gaze held quiet pride, and something inside me clicked: for the first time, my siblings weren't ashamed of the hand-me-down guardian they'd inherited—maybe they were even proud.

We washed dishes to the soundtrack of a storm building outside—spring teased by winter claws. Water rattled the drain like dice in a cup. Mitya collapsed on the new sofa, snoring before his head fully landed. I draped a blanket over him and clicked the living-room lights to half.

Anna lingered in the hallway. "You're logging back in tonight?"

"Later. Maybe just a quick check."

"Careful," she said, voice barely above the heater's hum. "You don't owe mountains anymore. Don't let them own you."

"I won't," I promised. She kissed my cheek—swift, embarrassed—and vanished to her room.

* *

The VR pod—refurbished, but mine—sat in the corner of my new bedroom like a sleek sarcophagus. I hesitated, palm on the visor. No timers screamed at me, no debt counters bled red. Logging in tonight was choice, not compulsion. A luxury.

I slid inside.

Login swirl became Flintspar's guild square, lanterns dancing in twilight wind. The familiar weight of my avatar settled: short gnome legs, titanium-crystal pick strapped to back, Gus's Keystone chisel tucked in belt. For a heartbeat I simply listened—to the clank of forge hammers, the gull cries from mountain eyries, the gossip swirl of chat channels. Home, of a sort.

A System memo popped:

[Notice] Exchange rate fluctuation: +2.1 % on Gold→USD

Profit I didn't desperately need. I almost laughed.

Rowan pinged a party invite before I took two steps. I accepted. His avatar—lean elf ranger—materialized in the plaza, waving a mug.

"Foreman! Rumor says you paid off the dragon called Debt."

"Dragon's belly's empty," I confirmed. "Its fire too."

He offered the mug. "Celebrate? Flintspar ale—gouges your taste buds but leaves stamina debuff at home."

We clinked, foam splattering. The ale tasted like burnt bread and victory.

"Union's buzzing, you know," he said. "Half the shard miners want your blueprint for 'escape velocity.'"

I shrugged. "Tell them there's no warp gate—just repeated swings."

"Swings and one very big Guardian corpse," he reminded, grin sly.

"Nitpicking."

He sobered. "So what now? You retire to peach-colored walls and leave us scrubs down here?"

"I'm taking a season off contracts," I said. "But not the game. Thinking of writing a proper guide—routes, safety tips, union rates. Something newbies can use."

He stared, then laughed. "A philanthropist with a pickaxe. The devs will call it balance patch."

"Let them."

A shout rose near the auction house—a group crowding an announcement board. Curious, we pushed closer. A new poster unfurled itself, ink glowing:

World Event: Founders' Festival

Hosts: Grinders' Union & Miners' Guild

Event Start: 7 days

Competitions: Ore-haul relay, Tunnel safety design, Junior Prospector Quiz

Prizes: Tier-Epic Drill, Scholarship Tokens (x3), Housing Deed, Custom Titles

Rowan whistled. "Scholarship tokens? That's new."

"Union pitched the idea last quarter," I said, reading fine print. "Looks like Guild approved."

He elbowed me. "Careful—you make mining aspirational, the server will flood with pick-swinging toddlers."

"Good problem."

My DM channel chimed—Old Gus:

I replied: <>

Rowan tipped an invisible hat and vanished into shadows—likely tracking new veins in distant ridges. I jogged toward the Guild Hall, boots clacking.

Inside, Gus hunched over a drafting table, beard braided into practical knots, spectacles perched on nose. He looked up, eyes twinkling.

"Kid," he grunted. "Heard you lit the debt note afire."

"Turned it to ash," I said.

He nodded, as if I'd reported sharpening a shovel. "Good. Now we dig for joy, not ransom." He slid parchment across. "Course outline for miners under Level 10. Cover basics—safety props, ore grading, ethics."

"Ethics?" I arched a brow.

"Some forget stones remember every hand that scars them," he said quietly.

I bent over the draft, annotating hazards and yield tables. Hours passed in comfortable scratching quills and low disagreements over decimal points. Occasionally System messages flickered—market updates, friend list logs—but I ignored them.

Sometime past virtual midnight, we sealed the syllabus with Guild wax. Gus poured us both a tot of something amber.

"To stones," he toasted.

"And to families they feed," I added. We drank.

The hall's hearth crackled; mannequins displayed legendary picks behind glass. I wondered if someday a replica of the Seedworm drill would stand among them. Maybe next to a plaque reading Built by workers, for workers—first to the Mountain's Heart.

Gus squinted at me. "You look lighter, kid. Like you dropped a sack of lead."

"More like five," I admitted.

"Careful—light feet float off the ground. Need ballast? Take apprentices; they'll chain you to earth."

I smirked. "Apprentices cost patience."

"Less than interest payments." He shuffled off, cackling.

I logged out.

* *

The new bedroom was dark, city streetlamps bleeding orange through curtains. My body felt heavy, but in a wholesome exhaustion way—muscles humming from furniture lifts, not all-night PvP sprints. I padded to the kitchen for water.

A note lay on the table—Anna's looping script.

Practise went well. Room echoes nicely. Don't stay up coding quest logs all night. We need your meat-space cooking tomorrow. Also: vote peach. —A

I chuckled. On the counter, Mitya's scribble:

CAT. (He had drawn a smiling feline wielding a pickaxe.)

I pinned both notes on the fridge.

Phone buzzed—a notification from the bank app:

Goal tracker: Education Fund

Status: 0% → 5% (Auto-savings activated)

Next milestone: $2 000 / $40 000

I tapped approve. Another window offered investment suggestions; I closed it. One step at a time.

Rain tapped the balcony door—soft percussion. I slid it open and stepped into the chill. Below, headlights smeared the wet asphalt; above, clouds swallowed stars. I inhaled petrichor, exhaled months of fear. Somewhere deep inside the Dyson Sphere, AI-crafted stone waited, humming secrets. I'd be back to listen—on my terms.

A single drop splashed my forehead—cold, real. I laughed, startling a pigeon roosting under the eaves.

"Mountain's heart beats," I whispered, "but tonight, so does home."

Behind me the apartment smelled of garlic, fresh paint swatches, and possibility. Ahead, endless worlds—virtual and otherwise—opened like ore veins under a practiced swing.

For once, I didn't choose between them. I simply stretched, feeling the pull of both, and knew I was strong enough now to carry them together.

The rain thickened to applause. I bowed to it, closed the door, and went to bed.

Chapter 33 — Crowns of Copper, Crowds of Cheers

The roommate hum of the VR capsule faded, and Flintspar's night air settled around me like a miner's cloak still warm from the forge. I exhaled dust that wasn't there and flexed fingers already itching for a pick I didn't need to swing tonight. This login wasn't about debts or deadlines; for once I was here simply because the Sphere felt a little like home, and homes deserve visits.

Lanterns strung between the square's granite pillars bobbed on early-spring winds, tinting the cobbles ochre and gold. Players drifted in small knots—traders lugging crates, rangers fletching arrows under awnings, a few low-level newbies gawking at statues of heroes they'd never meet. I half expected to evaporate into the background, another gnome on after-hours stroll. Instead a shout ricocheted across chat like a pick striking crystal:

[Local] HammerHand: " He's on! The Sphere Delver's in town—front of guild hall!"

A second later my party list bloomed with invites, whispers slapped the edge of my HUD, and the square's ambient volume doubled.

I blinked. "That went sideways fast."

HammerHand—a broad dwarf in etched iron plate—skidded to a halt before me, beard clips jangling. "Lad! Permission to shake yer hand?"

"Uh… sure?" He pumped my tiny fingers hard enough to rattle wrist bones, then backed off, eyes shining like he'd touched a relic. A tail of onlookers fanned behind him: humans, elves, even a couple of goblin players craning green necks. Some wielded quills, others readied screenshot crystals.

"Everyone okay?" I raised my voice. The crowd cheered. Somewhere a horn tooted a celebratory chord so off-key I suspected a prank consumable.

System pinged a new banner across my vision:

[System Global] Player has logged in. Welcome back, Sphere Delver!

Well. Subtlety officially deceased.

I toggled private status to "Do Not Disturb (Temporary)," but the flag only dimmed the tide. Messages kept rolling: congratulations, contract offers, guild invites spelled in emoticon-gilded bribes. I scanned for names I knew and found Rowan's within seconds.

[Whisper] Rowan: "Front gate, two minutes. Wear something celebratory."

I chuckled—my default leather prospector's jacket couldn't look more workday if it dripped grease. Still, I pivoted toward the main thoroughfare, weaving through fans offering everything from commemorative mugs to freshly baked pierogi buffs.

Halfway there, a modal window hijacked my HUD, borders trimmed in executive silver rather than System's teal.

≪Administrative Notice≫

Player:

Account Age: 87 days

Flag: Anomaly Investigation COMPLETE

Status: Cleared—no sanctions pending.

New Title Unlocked: Oreheart

Oreheart (Unique)

Description: "The world reveals its riches to you."

• Passive: +8 Perception vs geological features

• Passive: Mining yield +10 % (stacks multiplicatively)

• Passive: Immunity to weak cave-in tremor stagger

Note: Title is permanently bound to character. Cannot be traded or removed by administrative action. Enjoy, and thanks for pushing the boundaries of play!

Attached: 1 × Commemorative Badge "Bug-Buster".

The window dissolved before I'd unclenched my jaw. Cleared. Immune. And a 10 % yield buff? If debts were still looming I'd be sprinting to the nearest seam. As it was, relief pooled inside like warm tea. The sword of Damocles call-and-ban had vanished; the System had chosen celebration over execution.

I quick-equipped the title. A shimmer traced my outline, settling into an almost invisible bronze filigree around my collar. To the crowd, though, it must have been fireworks. Cheers thundered.

"Da, okay, breathe," I muttered, pushing through.

Rowan awaited beneath Flintspar's gate arch, auburn ponytail fluttering. He'd traded ranger leathers for a linen shirt rolled at the elbows and a multicolored sash—equal parts troubadour and swashbuckler. He offered a half bow.

"Foreman, or should I say Oreheart? Thought you'd dodge the confetti? No chance." He pressed a stein into my hands—polished mythril with inlaid lapis. "Guild's gift."

"Which guild?"

"Our very own miners' Union—though they might rename themselves the Oreheart Fan Club."

I tipped the stein: strong apple brew tinged with spice. The sip stung perfect.

"Celebration scheduled?" I asked.

Rowan grinned, flashing a quest marker hovering above his brow—yellow exclamation wearing a party hat.

"System issued event," he said. "Turns out the devs front-loaded the patch with a tavern instance—the Broken Drill—reserved entire evening. A toast to 'unprecedented player ingenuity.' That's you, legend."

I coughed. "Legends oversleep alarms and miss breakfast."

"Then let's feed you before speeches start." He slung an arm around my shoulders and whisked us toward the plaza.

Crowd parted like iron filings around a magnet. NPC lamplighters halted mid-task to doff caps; even the guards leaning on pikes straightened. My cheeks scorched. Yet somewhere under embarrassment flickered an ember of pride—I'd swung a pick long enough; maybe a little attention wouldn't cave the tunnels.

As we approached the tavern, a triple-story structure wedged between a smithy and gem-appraiser, a golden UI banner unfurled across the façade:

EVENT INSTANCE: RECOGNITION HEARTH

Purpose: Community Celebration

Entry Requirement: Shared instance, invited + open seating

Special Buff: "Good Company" (+5 % Stamina regen, +2 % Luck for 3 h)

Note: No PvP, no brawls, no nonsense—System enforced. Enjoy!

Rowan nudged me across threshold. Inside, warmth socked me like a furnace—oak beams, brewing mash scent, chatter stacked to rafters. Dozens of faces pivoted: Union miners, independent gatherers, low-level newbies I'd spotted once in tutorial shafts. A cheer detonated. A fiddler struck chords; a dwarven drummer hammered a barrel lid.

Old Gus rose from a corner booth, beard recently oiled, eyes crinkling. "Look who dug himself out of admin purgatory. About time!" He gestured to an empty chair beside him—cushioned, miracle. I slid in; Rowan perched across.

Gus shoved a plate of steaming pelmeni under my nose. "Eat first, speech second. Don't faint like that paladin during smith-guild honors last month."

I obeyed. Dough pillows burst savory broth—NPC cooking had upgraded since last patch, or hunger tinted them divine.

Conversation roared on all sides. Snippets floated: talk of new mining nodes unlocked by the patch, rumors about Ironclad's disarray (some said Dungrim hadn't logged in since the Guardian fiasco), speculation that devs might open the floating isles soon. Every so often a player would sidle up, ask for an autograph (on stone tablets, no less), or request permission to replicate my build in guides. I signed, smiled, deflected.

Between bites I flicked my inventory to peek at the admin gift: the Commemorative Badge "Bug-Buster." Tooltip read:

"Proof you survived the System's scrutiny and came out a pioneer. Wear it with pride."

No mechanical bonus, just bragging rights. I pinned it to belt anyway.

A hush rippled—the tavern door had reopened. A tall elf woman in sunset-orange robes strode in, flanked by two automaton scribes. Her username glowed imperial purple: .

Rowan inhaled. "High-level admin… fancy."

GM Elowen mounted a stair to balcony, projecting her voice without magic.

"Citizens of Endless Worlds!" she began. "Tonight we honour ingenuity, collaboration, and the spirit of fair play that defines our shard. Against heavy odds, a team of laborers dove where raiders feared, defeated a world boss, and reshaped the economy—not through exploit, but determination."

Eyes turned my way. I tried sinking into chair; wood wouldn't cooperate.

"For exceptional perseverance," Elowen continued, "titles and bug-fix exemptions have been issued. But community thrives when knowledge spreads. Therefore, the dev council is partnering with the Grinders' Union to release an official Miner's Compendium—Oreheart Edition."

Applause; Gus whistled through teeth.

She glanced at me directly. "We request that the Sphere Delver provide foreword commentary and select diagrams."

My fork paused mid-air. Foreword. Official compendium. The miners' scribbles I'd been drafting for newbies might end up codex canon. I swallowed broth and pride simultaneously.

"I'll contribute," I called, voice cracking only once. The tavern erupted approval; mugs thumped.

Elowen smiled, then raised hands. "Second, recognition of communal resilience: from this patch onward, mining zones flagged as labor instances will feature 'Protected Shift' windows—reduced PvP aggression for gatherers who opt in. Credit the Union's advocacy and player feedback."

Rowan punched my shoulder. "You lobbying when no one looked paid dividends."

My mind flashed to the day Ironclad ambushed me in a so-called safe zone. Protected Shift could spare other grinders my scars. Felt… good.

A final System scroll blazed:

[Patch Note Addendum] Unique Class Feature Granted

Player — Ore Sense recalibrated as Deep Resonance.

• Active ability (5 min every 2 h): Scan 100 m radius for ore.

• No longer triggers anomalous cave-ins.

• Effect visible only to you and direct party.

Thank you for beta-testing future content!

I choked a laugh. "Beta-testing," I echoed to Gus.

He rolled eyes. "Fancy speak for you debugged their mistakes gratis."

Elowen retreated; festivities reignited. A bard began spinning a satirical ballad about Dungrim's shattered axe. Patrons hollered chorus; tankards foamed.

Gus leaned close. "Kid, you did more than line pockets—you shifted stone hearts. You'll see ripples for years."

I scratched beard—still barely stubble on a gnome chin. "Then let's surf them wisely."

A clink. Rowan raised his mug. "To Treyan, Oreheart, Sphere Delver—gnome who mined the mountain, fed a family, and reminded the Sphere that labour is heroism."

Gus lifted his ale. "To fair wages and thick beams overhead."

Voices joined, mugs met. Liquid warmth coursed.

Yet amid joy, a whisper tugged my HUD: a private message from a sender I didn't recognize.

Arcanist_Zeri: "Your scan signature on Deep Resonance resonates beyond mineral frequencies. Interested in research collaboration?"

I frowned. Scan signature? Research? I bookmarked for later and turned back to friends. Tonight was for reflection, not new quests.

The party blurred into comfortable noise. I drafted mental paragraphs for the compendium foreword: something about pick strokes like heartbeat, about families depending on modest ores, about treating stone with respect. Words tumbled, rearranged, settled.

Hours later I slipped out into crisp starlight. The crowd still rioted inside, but Flintspar streets lay silent but for forge hiss.

Above, the Dyson sun's night-side ired faint silver arcs around interior sky—never full darkness here. I breathed sparks of coal and pine.

A System charm pinged soft—they'd granted the evening's buff "Good Company" to my real-world login timer. Cheeky.

I checked family chat: Anna's selfie—fresh peach paint streak on her cheek, violin propped in new practice alcove. Caption: First scale in new echo chamber. Proud of you, bro. Mitya appended GIF of a cartoon cat wearing a miner helmet: When me join EndlessWorlds? I laughed, typed soon.

In-game, I summoned map overlay. Protected Shift zones glowed pale green; they spread further into mid-range tunnels than I'd hoped. Miners tomorrow would see difference.

Footsteps approached—soft leather. Elven figure: the Union leader, Senka. She halted beside, watching sky curve.

"Big night," she said.

"Big for many, not just me."

"You'll have more responsibilities. Guide writers, new policy boards. Ready?"

I rubbed eyes. "Ready as anyone holding a pickhandle instead of a scepter."

She smiled. "Those wielding picks built the scepters." She extended a sealed scroll. "Preliminary draft of Miner's Bill of Rights. Review when sober."

I tucked it away. "Thanks."

Senka vanished into shadows, on to next union matter. Always more work, but work of choice now.

I opened the Deep Resonance timer—two hours until first scan. Tempting. But better to save virgin activation for when it mattered, not flex it drunk.

Instead, I walked the wall-top path overlooking Flintspar's outer quarry. Lanterns dotted the pit like ember constellations; low-level players chiselled mundane sandstone, unaware they stood on shoulders of a raid that changed economies.

I tipped an invisible hat to them. May they mine in peace.

Back in tavern vestibule, a corkboard displayed event photos auto-captured by System. One froze me mid-laugh, stein raised, Gus behind boasting grand gesture. Under it the caption: "Work Earns the World." Someone had written True in charcoal.

Felt like epitaph for the grind I'd survived.

But horizon beckoned—floating isles I'd glimpsed once from mountaintops, rumored starforged ore. Loan sharks were memory; siblings secure; my stats healthy. Almost felt illegal to dream again.

I messaged Rowan: Tomorrow—scout cliffs above the Verdant Steppe. Heard crystals bloom at dawn.

His reply instant: Adventure not debt? Count me.

I exhaled. Adventure not debt. The phrase fit like newly forged gauntlets.

A final server clock blossom pre-dawn murmurs; real-world alarm would ring soon for breakfast prep. I logged out.

Capsule hatch hissed in moonlit bedroom. Outside, city buses whooshed amorphous lullaby. Apartment walls—fresh peach indeed—glowed faint from streetlamp. On desk, lease papers anchored by cat plush Mitya insisted would manifest someday.

I stretched sore shoulders. VR session had run long but joy trumped fatigue.

Phone buzzed—bank notification: auto-deposit from tonight's in-game celebration merch sales, a percentage cut they'd gifted me. Not huge, but more than last month's grocery budget. Income now registered as creative royalties. Wry grin.

Coffee could wait; sunrise not far. I padded to balcony. Clouds parted to reveal the real moon, pale coin against ink. Inside jacket pocket, my heart still thumped like a pick striking ore.

"Time to breathe for real," I whispered in Russian.

Breath steamed, disappeared. Somewhere inside Dyson metal thousands of kilometers thick, NPCs toasted, players traded logs, ore veins cooled from heat of picks.

And tomorrow, another swing—by choice, not by chain.

A flicker of purple triggered retina memory—the admin window had thanked me for "pushing boundaries of play." Boundaries? There were none; only horizons.

I stepped back inside, closed balcony door, and let the world—both of them—spin quietly toward dawn.

Chapter 34 — A Community Transformed

The morning after the Broken Drill celebration tasted like ash and peppermint—ash from too many toasts, peppermint from the herbal tonic Rowan forced on me "to keep the stamina buff rolling." My real body still lay in the VR capsule, but my avatar's tongue swore it remembered every mug of ale. Even so, I logged in early, determined to make the hangover earn its keep.

Flintspar's dawn shimmered pale honey across slate rooftops. Vendors wheeled carts into the square, spilling aromas of cinnamon breads and sizzling sausage. The atmosphere felt different—crisper, hopeful—like the town itself had leveled up overnight. Maybe that was ego talking, but the chat channels backed me up: talk of new crafting orders, of reduced pick-taxes, of Ironclad's smoldering reputation. I strode past the notice board half expecting an epic quest to leap out and bite me, but instead a plain parchment fluttered at eye level:

Protected Shift Window Engaged

06:00–09:00 // 18:00–21:00 server time

Gatherers inside flagged zones are immune to PvP initiation.