South Mine

Chapter Three

The Next Morning.

Now on the bed.

Cloud's eyes snapped open to a biting discomfort, as though his bones were objecting to existence itself. Hunger gnawed at him instantly. His head throbbed with a peculiar, sour sensation, born of exhaustion and an utter lack of food.

"Bloody hell… what time is it?" he muttered through a scowl.

In his semi-conscious state, Cloud's eyes drifted about the dim flat. The crude outlines of the desk and the coat he had flung carelessly over the back of it registered slowly. A single, battered ledger book lay open on the desk's edge, one of its pages curled at the corner. He had only just noticed it. His mind was beginning to slow again.

Lazily, he reached out and thumbed through it. The entire ledger was filled with narrow handwriting, and the contents were nothing more than tallies, wages, and dull expenses — the price of bread, soap, old work boots, even a charge for repairing a cracked mug.

"What sort of bastard records the cost of mutton fat this obsessively?" he mused, his lip curling.

Clearly, Elias Warden had been a meticulous, calculating sod — one who knew the value of a coin in a city that spat on the poor. It explained how a low-rung mining assistant managed a private flat while most were packed ten to a room. None of it served him now, though. He gave the ledger a shove and watched it shut with a dull thud.

It wasn't until his fingers brushed across his face that a peculiar realisation struck him — his skin was dry.

He closed his eyes for a moment. The darkness behind them remained still, untouched by the nightmares he'd grown used to in the modern world each time he tried the same.

"That's a gain..."

Cloud stared at the ceiling with a disgusted expression.

So the old codger wasn't entirely spouting shite after all. Brilliant. Tastes foul now, doesn't it?

He sat up and swung his legs off the side of the bed. Oddly, his limbs responded without complaint. He took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders, then stretching out his whole body. The bed, though a disgrace to confess, was better than his modern day bed.

A lazy beam of wan daylight cut through the curtains, catching on the warped glass of the window. His gaze followed it idly, irritation crawling under his skin.

The room was barren of anything useful. Just his coat, the cryptic letter from last night, and an embarrassingly empty stomach that gnawed harder by the second. There wasn't a single trace of a midnight visitor, nor some sudden, miraculous revelation waiting to be discovered in a corner.

As he wished...

He raked a hand through his unkempt hair, exhaled slowly, and muttered under his breath:

"Ugh~ I'm starting to dislike this world."

Without wasting a moment, Cloud pushed himself upright and crossed the cramped flat, irritation already simmering beneath his skin. His hands moved with habitual caution as he pried open the battered drawers of a crooked cabinet, flicking through their contents. A few rusted nails, a bundle of twine, a chipped clay pipe — all equally worthless. He shifted to the desk next, lifting papers, rifling beneath old receipts and discarded notes. There was no hint of conspiracies, and not even a bloody coin.

A crude, unadorned map of Ebonrest hung crookedly on the wall. The ink was faded and no marks adorned it.

Useless... he thought with a grimace.

His gaze fell upon a stack of unpaid rent notices shoved into the corner of the desk. He didn't bother to read them. Their presence was enough. A weary sigh slipped through his teeth.

It was the same damned curse of life; live extravagant for a while, then crawl into the Tomb of eternal poverty. It was no different from the mess he'd left behind in the modern world. Seemed their whole bloodline was doomed to this dance apart from the gods' personal gifts.

The rents were three months unpaid, if memory served, and if he didn't scrape together the coin soon, he'd be booted to the streets.

The miner's tools sat along the wall. All was was well-maintained with clean edges. Sharpened picks and spades stacked in order. Elias might've hated his station, but he kept his tools like a soldier kept his blade — disciplined.

As Cloud moved, memories slid into place with alarming ease. He saw the South Mine as if he'd worked there a decade — the coarse voice of Roldan Barrett, the boss, barking orders, the oppressive heat, the dust clinging to sweat-soaked skin. Faces of drunks and dull-eyed labourers. The meagre pay at week's end. Each piece fit naturally, as though the life of Elias Ward had always been his.

Then came a flicker. A pale-haired woman with a cold voice. She'd approached Elias in some dim side street, asked about his grandfather and whether he'd ever learned swordplay. Elias, the stubborn bastard, shrugged it off and left her standing there. Her features were vague, but the tone and silver hair stuck fast.

Cloud scoffed aloud.

"Bloody foolish way to ask. Did she truly expect this sod to know he's from some special bloodline?"

Cold practicality settled in his gut. She wasn't some coincidence. Either a bloodline scout, a desperate fool, or perhaps...

Whichever it was, it was a lead, and leads were currency in his current situation.

He finished his search and straightened, casting one last glance around the room. There was still no sign of anything useful, no trap laid in wait, no lurking figure. The flat was as barren as it had been the night before — a reflection of Elias's life, empty of purpose, weighted only by routine and the slow, inevitable crawl towards death.

"Right then. Time to eat just anything this place can offer."

Cloud rubbed his face and shuffled towards the small table by the corner. A chipped plate lay atop it, the remains of yesterday's dry oats and a scrap of salted fish beside a dented tin cup. He muttered under his breath. For a man barely a step above a church rat, this Elias owned a surprising number of things. Miserable things, but things nonetheless.

He poured a measure of stale water over the oats, watching the grey clumps shift but refusing to soften. With a sigh, he grabbed a fork, scooped a mouthful, and forced it down. The taste was abominable — a sticky, gritty texture with a hint of salt and something else he chose not to identify. His stomach lurched in protest.

"Tch… bloody hell," he hissed, glaring at the plate as though it had personally insulted him. Still, he shoved down another mouthful, knowing well enough not to waste food in this wretched century.

The fish was no better. Tough, stringy, and so over-salted his lips stung. He worked through it with grim determination, chewing like a man gnawing through rope. When it was done, he reached for the tin cup. The water was tepid, with a faint, metallic aftertaste. One gulp later, his body rejected it outright.

He choked, gagged violently, and smacked the cup onto the table.

"Shite on a church spire," he muttered hoarsely, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Leaning back, Cloud exhaled a long breath, regarding the empty plate and cup. A crooked smile twitched at the corner of his mouth.

"The real nightmare wasn't that old bastard's tarot… it's this damned diet."

After enduring the last of the tepid water and setting the empty cup aside, Cloud made for the desk without another thought. The room remained as it was — bare, miserable, silent. He pulled out the folded letter and map from beneath his coat where he'd stashed them the previous night, then dropped himself into the creaking chair.

He didn't bother re-reading the letter's cryptic warning. Its words were etched well enough into his mind. The so-called prophecy, the Descendants, the impending Doom. All of it.

The map came next. Flattening it across the desk, Cloud ran his eyes to the spot marked, Pale Garden.

Adventures like these never start in a bakery, do they? I'm still having a bad feeling about this Cementry. Goddammit.

He committed the street names to memory, the half-legible ones anyway. Elias's lingering recollections gave him a rough sense of the district's sprawl. Enough to avoid getting lost.

He refolded the map with a sharp, impatient flick and slipped both paper and letter back into his coat.

No point staring at the same words twice.

Then shortly after, Cloud left the flat without hesitation. He didn't waste time peering through the cracked shutters or pressing an ear to the old door. There was no sense acting like a petty fugitive. Whatever this world wanted to throw at him, it would, sooner or later.

The streets of Ebonrest greeted him with their usual grey embrace, a lingering mist clung to the cobbles, clashing with faint columns of chimney smoke. Market vendors hauled crates to their stalls, some already haggling over prices not even half the city's working men could afford. He took it in with a cold eye. Peasants in threadbare coats, pickpockets pretending to loiter, ragged urchins lingering by alleyways.

Same hierarchy, different names. Looks like the rats have the same faces in every era…

He walked steadily, not hurrying, blending into the sparse crowd. There was no sign of that hooded figure from last night, and also no beggar watching him too long, no silhouette slipping behind a corner. It was just the ordinary, miserable Ebonrest life.

Arriving at the South Mine gates after a ten minutes walk, a gathering of soot-streaked men coughed and grumbled, leaning on shovels and buckets. Cloud recognised a few faces from Elias's memories — Hobb the lamp boy, Drennan with the crooked nose, and old Frake missing two fingers. He gave curt nods where appropriate, even muttering a gruff morning greeting to one or two, carefully matching the tone Elias's mind recalled. It wouldn't do to break pattern now.

Then came Roldan Barrett.

The gruff overseer loomed, a thick-bearded brute with one ear missing, holding a long iron rod he liked to brandish like a sceptre.

"Oi, Elias! You're late, you piss-blooded cur!" The rod swung down, aiming square for Cloud's skull.

But his body moved before thought.

Without thought, Cloud's hand shot up, catching the rod inches from his head. The entire yard went dead silent.

He offered a tight smile, wiped the rod's length with his coat sleeve like some courteous gentleman, and lowered it back to Roldan's hands with a slight bow.

"My apologies, sir. A lapse in discipline. Won't happen again."

Roldan blinked twice, momentarily lost for words. This wasn't the sluggish, half-dazed Elias Warden he knew.

Cloud didn't give him a chance to process it. He stepped smartly into line with the other workers with a calm demeanour, though internally, his mind reeled.

That was... fast. Bloody hell, what else did that old bastard tamper with?

The shift whistle shrieked.

Cloud blended into the throng. He hauled crates of crude ore, shovelled loose gravel, and moved carts along groaning tracks. The labour was miserable, but his body, by muscle memory, carried out the motions. Though Cloud himself had never performed such tasks, Elias's limbs seemed to remember.

The tunnels were narrow, damp, and poorly shored up with ancient timbers. A few areas sagged dangerously. Cloud's eyes scanned the ceiling, remembering exact spots Elias had flagged in his memories. It was oddly precise, like inherited intuition.

A rockfall clattered somewhere deep within. Dust rolled out of the darkness. Nobody flinched. Cloud noted the direction — left tunnel, third branch, avoid it.

Some miners attempted casual talk, spitting gossip about the tax hikes and a man caught stealing lamp oil. Cloud ignored them, pretending not to hear, inwardly cursing them for interrupting his mental mapping.

Keep yapping, bastards. One good cave-in and I might get a bit of peace.

The shift dragged on. By mid-afternoon, the second bell rang — it was finally breaktime.

Cloud cracked his knuckles, wiping sweat from his brow. He smirked faintly to himself.

Lovely career fate's handed me. From supermarket cashier to medieval rock hauler. I don't even know what my actual job here is now that I'm here. Truly, life's peak.

The break room was a miserable excuse for respite — a cramped, low-ceilinged chamber with cracked walls, grime-smudged windows, and benches sticky with stale sweat. Men gathered in clusters, their talk was a mixture of idle grumbling and half-hearted jokes. Cloud sat off to one side, neither inviting nor rejecting company, simply existing in the corner.

He let the words wash over him at first.

It was when the name Pale Garden surfaced that Cloud's attention sharpened.

"…swear on me mother's grave," a wiry, sharp-chinned man was saying, voice thick with ale despite the hour. "Last week, down by them graves. Cloaked figure, just standing there… like death itself."

They spoke like illiterates with no training at all. Well, it was exactly what they were. Their English and accent demanded full focus if understanding is required.

A few others grunted dismissively. One broad, soot-streaked fellow scoffed, raising a cup of foul-looking ale.

"Old wives' tales for piss-drunks and brats. Nothin' there but rotters and bones."

Cloud kept his eyes lowered, a piece of half-dried bread in hand, of which he had no intention of eating. Internally, he scoffed.

If only they knew. If they had the faintest inkling of what truly lurked in the shadows of this city... of what was stirring beneath their feet.

The conversation took on a life of its own — a few leaning into wild embellishments, claiming the Hollow Chapel that oversaw the place practised blood rites and whispered to the dead. Exaggerations, mostly. Some was credible enough to merit attention, though.

Cloud quietly noted every word, filing them away like a seasoned informant. It wasn't that he believed them outright — no, a man with sense didn't trust the word of drunkards. But patterns emerged in rumours. Even the most foolish of men sometimes stumbled into truth by accident.

His gaze flicked between speakers, careful not to linger.

"If there's even a sliver of fact to this tale, I'd be a fool to ignore it..." Cloud whispered to himself.

Later that evening...

The dull clang of the mine bell split the heavy air, signalling the end of shift. A chorus of tired grunts and curses followed as soot-covered men shambled from the tunnels, faces smudged and shoulders low.

Cloud moved with them only until the main road forked. Without a word, he slipped off down a narrow side street, fog curling in lazy tendrils around his ankles. The path to Greyharrow was quiet, save for the occasional creak of a shop shutter and the distant bark of some mongrel hound.

He reached his flat, stepped inside, and shut the door behind him with a dull click. The same sickly light filtered through the cracked window. Everything exactly as he'd left it.

Without wasting a moment, Cloud crossed the room, grabbed the folded letter and crude map from the desk, and shoved them into his coat. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, but the only thing left was a scrap of cold, salted fish from the morning. It tasted even worse now — dry, sour, and stringy. Still, he forced it down. Waste was a sin in times like these.

At the window, he spared one last look through the cracked glass. The street outside was growing darker.

Cloud pulled open a drawer, fingers closing around a short, iron rod — Elias's old mining tool, it was half rusted but solid. It wasn't much, but it'd split a man's skull if swung hard enough. He slipped it inside his coat.

One night in a graveyard... What could go wrong?

With that, he stepped out into the dusk and headed for Pale Garden.