Chapter 1: Debts and Desperation
The apartment always smelled of damp plaster when the air-con wheezed itself awake, and that morning was no different. I cracked an eyelid, registered the pale Perth dawn sneaking between torn venetians, and groaned when the alarm on my battered holo-watch buzzed for the third time. Another double shift done, another handful of dollars earned, another twenty-four hours closer to the deadline that would break us if I didn't find a miracle.
I slid my legs off the fold-out sofa and winced as the springs complained. Steel-toe boots hit the vinyl floor with a dull clack. The soles were still crusted with red laterite dust from the construction site, and a sour mineral tang drifted upward—iron oxide and stale sweat, an unlovely perfume that had become my signature. I peeled off the hi-vis jacket, slung it across the lone kitchen chair, and stretched until my spine popped.
The fridge rattled when I opened it. One carton of long-life milk, half a jar of Vegemite, two wrinkled apples. I grabbed the apples and sliced them onto mismatched plates. Across the living room, my little brother Mitya snored in his top bunk, one arm dangling like a rope. On the bottom bunk, Anna sat cross-legged with an algebra workbook glowing in the dim light of her tablet. She looked up, eyes bleary but stubborn.
"You're late again, Kolya," she whispered.
"Night shift ran over. Inspector wanted a soil report before concrete." I set a plate beside her book. "Breakfast of champions."
"Two apples for three people isn't breakfast."
"We're champions on a cut weight program."
She managed a ghost of a smile before glancing at the cyclone of envelopes piled on the kitchenette counter. Red letters screamed FINAL NOTICE and IMMEDIATE ACTION REQUIRED. The latest was stamped with a stylised ibis—Cygnet Finance's polite logo for predators.
I followed her gaze, throat tight. "Don't worry about that. I've got a plan."
"Does the plan involve sleeping?"
"Eventually." I ruffled her dark hair, earning a swat. "Go wake Mitya. Bus leaves in twenty."
While she shook her brother awake, I scooped the envelopes into a drawer. The top sheet slid free, taunting me with cold ink: OUTSTANDING BALANCE – AUD 38,750; MINIMUM PAYMENT NEXT WEEK – AUD 4,500.
Uncle Arkady had sworn the poker tables were a sure thing. "One hot streak, Kolya, and we're golden," he'd insisted before vanishing into the grey folds of suburban exile and leaving his marker in my mailbox. Now Luca "the Magpie" Spadaro wanted his money, and his heavies didn't mind plucking wings to get it.
I showered in water a degree above freezing, dressed in yesterday's cargo pants, and headed out with the kids. Mitya trailed behind, yawning into his sleeve. Anna looped her arm through mine.
"You'll be okay today?" she asked.
"I always am."
"That's not an answer."
"Da, little owl. I'm fine."
She gave me a look that said liar but let it drop. Outside, the street smelled of eucalyptus and diesel. I put them on the bus, waved until it rumbled around the corner, then turned toward the construction site five blocks east.
The sun cleared the treeline, washing rust-coloured light over Downey & Sons' half-finished civic centre. I clocked in with a thumbprint that failed twice—calluses blurred the ridges—then listened to Foreman Jacobs bark assignments. My crew's job: survey a footing trench before the pour. Easy, if your brain wasn't marinating in sleepless fog.
The trench was a two-metre scar of scrubbed earth. I crouched, scooped a handful of damp soil, and rubbed it between forefinger and thumb. Sandy loam, flecks of quartz, enough clay to hold form if the rain stayed away. Thirty centimetres deeper the colour shifted to a dusky ochre—laterite beginning to iron-stone, common here on the ancient Yilgarn craton. Solid stuff. Would bear weight.
I made notes, mind drifting. Geology had been my world once: field trips along the Darling Scarp, mapping strike ridges and mafic dykes with Professor Dimitrova while dreaming of doctoral research. That life died the day Mum and Dad's ute kissed a road train outside Geraldton. Dreams didn't matter when two kids needed school uniforms and rent.
Jacobs signed off on my report without reading it. Figures. On my way to the portable office for smoko, a black SUV rolled onto the gravel, tyres crunching. The driver's door opened; out stepped a man built like a concrete mixer, neck thick as rebar, hair slicked into knife blades. Vinny "Vee" Leone, Luca's favourite messenger.
"Morning, Kolya," he said, voice honeyed and toxic.
My heart kicked. "Vee. Work site's restricted."
"I'll be quick." He flashed a grin containing too many teeth and a silver magpie lapel pin. "Boss loves punctuality, you know?"
"I'm aware."
He produced a folded ledger. "Payment schedule. You missed yesterday."
"I paid interest last Friday."
"Interest, yes. Principal, no. We need four-and-a-half grand by next Thursday. Cash. Otherwise…" He mimed a bird pecking seed. "Someone loses a shiny eye."
"I'll have it."
His eyes narrowed. "How?"
"Side contracts." I forced calm. "Consulting gig. Geology."
"Don't care if you're licking gold off the Queen's slippers. Money's money." He tucked the ledger into my vest. "Next Thursday, 6 p.m., same café. Don't make me ruin that pretty face."
He sauntered back to the SUV. Dust spiralled as he pulled away, leaving my stomach sour.
Four-and-a-half thousand. A fortnight of double shifts wouldn't touch it. I leaned against a stack of timber, breathing sawdust and panic. Somewhere overhead a crow cawed, as if laughing at the maths.
Lunch break found me alone on a cement block, scrolling job boards on my cracked holo-slab. Nothing paid enough fast enough. I was about to pocket the slab when an ad flickered across the corner: ENDLESS WORLDS – GET PAID TO PLAY! REAL MONEY EXCHANGE. MINE, CRAFT, PROFIT. A looping clip showed an avatar hefting a pickaxe, bright ore showering sparks into a virtual forge.
I tapped the link. Forums bloomed: testimonials, spreadsheets, screenshots of bank receipts. One post stopped me cold: "Cleared forty grand in three months grinding ore. Ask me how." Skepticism bubbled—scams bred like cane toads online—but threads were full of mid-tier players discussing ore prices, exchange rates, even taxation tips.
Mining inside a Dyson Sphere, huh? I'd spent childhood holidays bashing rocks in Kalgoorlie for fun. What if all that dusty knowledge could mint digital gold?
At knock-off I walked home under a bruised sky. Anna was tutoring Mitya at the kitchen table when I stepped in. Their heads popped up hopefully—had I brought dinner? I managed a grin and produced a bag of fifty-cent rolls salvaged from the bakery bin. Not ideal, but they devoured them like banquet fare.
When the kids slept, I opened the laptop Mum bought during my first semester—hinges cracked, battery dead, but still serviceable on mains. I dove deeper into Endless Worlds documentation. Fully immersive VR, 1:1 time dilation, robust economy pegged to an in-house crypto called OrbCoin. Exchange rate fluctuated but averaged one gold to fifty Aussie cents. More importantly, no class restrictions on gathering professions; even level-one newbies could mine copper for steady cash.
But to play, I'd need hardware. Full-dive rigs started at three grand new—impossible. Used markets occasionally had battered capsules for a few hundred if you didn't mind spotty haptics. I opened second-hand listings and began trawling. Luck, or whatever patron saint watches over desperate families, handed me a lead: NERVE-LINK V3 POD – MINOR GEL LEAK, $450 O.N.O, PICK UP TONIGHT, SUBIACO. Scrolling pictures showed cosmetic wear but core systems looked intact.
I glanced at the clock—21:12—and at the bank app: balance $512. Anna's bus card top-up could wait. My thumbs shook as I fired off a message.
Is it still available? I can pay cash tonight.
A reply pinged almost instantly: Yes. Bring muscle, it's heavy.
I strapped the kids' wagon to my bike rack and pedalled fifteen kilometres under sodium streetlights. Subiaco's terraces whispered with sprinklers and magpies roosting. The seller, a wiry uni student with coder-pallor, helped me wrestle the pod into the wagon.
"Why so cheap?" I asked, handing over crumpled bills.
He shrugged. "Dad cut my stipend. Need beer money. It works, just smells like saline. Clean it with vinegar."
The pod's shell bore scuffs but the jack ports were pristine. I hauled it home, heartbeat hammering a rhythm of hope and terror. Mitya stirred as I manoeuvred the pod into the lounge.
"Is that a spaceship?" he mumbled.
"Something like that. Go back to sleep, zhenshchina-muha."
He giggled and obeyed. Anna appeared next, hair a static halo. "What did you buy?"
"Investment."
Her frown was deep enough to mine. "With what money?"
"My emergency fund."
"And this isn't an emergency?"
"It's the tool to fix the emergency." I peeled off the shipping foam. "Tomorrow, while you're at school, I test it."
"You need sleep, Kolya."
"I'll sleep in the pod—time flows same as here. Saves a mattress."
She huffed but helped me connect power and siphon gel. We patched the leak with aquarium sealant and wiped the interior. At dawn's smear I collapsed onto the sofa, staring at the ceiling fan's wobbling blades. Could virtual rocks pay real debts? The forums said yes. But every gambler believes the next hand is salvation. Arkady believed it.
Yet geology wasn't gambling. Ore followed rules—crystal lattices, hydrothermal veins, specific gravity. If Endless Worlds modelled real mineralogy, a geologist might out-perform any high-level warrior swinging swords at trolls.
I dozed three hours. When the alarm shrilled, adrenaline spiked. Anna and Mitya were already dressed; cereal bowls clinked. I kissed their heads, promising nachos for dinner, then ushered them out the door.
Back inside, I bolted every lock, unpacked the VR harness, and crawled into the pod. Cool nutrient gel hissed as the lid sealed. Electrodes latched to scalp nodes; the interface hummed, a low chord that vibrated behind my eyes.
NERVE-LINK V3 – CALIBRATION COMPLETE. WARNING: USER FATIGUE LEVEL CRITICAL. CONTINUE? Y/N
"Da," I whispered.
Darkness folded, replaced by a starburst of colour, a menu hovering in ink-black void. ENDLESS WORLDS – CREATE ACCOUNT OR LOGIN. My new life—our new life—waited one click away.
I hesitated, recalling Vinny's ledger, Anna's worried stare.
"For them," I said, throat tight, and selected CREATE ACCOUNT.
The void flared white, and for the first time in months, hope felt almost solid enough to hold.
Chapter 2: Logging In – A Risky Avatar
The pod lid whispered shut with a dentist-drill hiss, and darkness folded in like a cool blanket of saline and plastic. I exhaled, trying to unclench every muscle before the gel's faint ozone scent replaced the damp-plaster reek of the flat. One deep breath, two—then the neural mesh pulsed against my scalp, and half my weariness slid sideways, pared away by a wash of diagnostic lights that only I could see.
≪NERVE-LINK V3 — Baseline Sync 97 %≫
WARNING: User fatigue level—CRITICAL. Prolonged immersion may cause disorientation.
Continue? [Y/N]
"Da," I muttered, pulse jittering. The pod accepted with a soft chime, and the darkness resolved into a black void peppered by faint green lattice lines: the system shell.
A white rectangle bloomed at centre.
─── ───
Create Account Login
───────────────
My fingertip, or the thought of it, tapped Create Account. Lines of slate-grey UI ribboned outward, wrapping me in the polite efficiency of a bank form.
Choose Handle:
I hesitated. Kolya was too real, too traceable if I ever crossed paths with Vinny's crew online—paranoia, sure, but the debt shadowed every decision. My professor used to nickname me Stone Reader; not bad, but maybe too lyrical. Something simple:
Orefinder
Accept.
Select Race & Origin
A rotating carousel of idealised avatars glided past. Golden-haired human paladins flexed polished plate; willowy elf mages sparkled with nebular spells; an orc war-chief roared, dwarves brandished hammers. Each model glowed with focus-group beauty and the promise of combat glory.
I flicked the carousel faster until the glamour wore thin, until at the dusty tail-end a squat figure shuffled onto the plinth: a bald gnome in a stained leather apron, goggles perched on a nose like chipped granite.
GNOME — ARTIFICER SPECIALISATION
Difficulty: HARD MODE – Deprecated
Base XP Penalty: –30 %
Combat Bonus: None
Trade Bonus: +15 % Mining, +10 % Engineering
Community Rating: ★☆☆☆☆
A little red triangle blinked by the description.
Are you sure? Gnomes lack combat advantages and receive fewer storyline quests.
That alone probably dissuaded 99 % of new players. Perfect. Let the swords-and-fireball crowd chase boss kills; I needed ore, not orcs.
"Accept," I said.
Customise Appearance
A mannequin version of the gnome appeared, mottled grey. Sliders hovered beside him: height, build, hair, eyes, jawline, symmetry, complexion. Beneath, a read-only field: Base Charisma: 14 (High)—why so high? Maybe the scanner mapped some of my real face ratios; the pod's photogrammetry did share baseline biometrics. Whatever the reason, high Charisma in a mining class was wasted stat weight—and dangerous if it drew attention.
I nudged every slider toward drab. Flatten hair to buzz-cut, enlarge ears, dab a grease smudge across the cheek. The preview stubbornly retained a certain rakish appeal: like a gremlin cosplaying a runway model.
Shrug. If the system wanted me handsome, so be it.
I toggled clothes: rough canvas coat, tool belt, hobnailed boots. Functional. No bright colours.
Confirm.
The mannequin shimmered, pixel lines wrapping it like carbon-fiber thread. A slim stat window snapped open.
┌─ CHARACTER SHEET (Provisional) ──────────────────────────┐
│ Handle: Orefinder Race: Gnome Class: Artificer │
│ Level 0 │
│ STR 8 AGI 12 VIT 11 INT 15 PER 15 LCK 9 │
│ ATTRIB POINTS REMAINING: 0 │
│ Perks: Low-Light Vision (Racial) │
└──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
Good spread. Strength low, but perception high: exactly the sensorium a prospector needs.
The sheet flickered, text rearranging for a heartbeat so brief I might have imagined it.
Perks: Low-Light Vision (Racial)
Ore Sense ??? (UNREGISTERED)
Then gone, the unknown perk line swallowed by the window refresh like a skipped film frame. I frowned. Ghost UI? Could have been lag—our apartment's fibre link sometimes hiccupped when the neighbours binge-streamed cricket replays.
I dismissed the sheet. The void brightened; a star-point expanded to an iris of molten copper.
Select Starting Region
A holographic Dyson Sphere unfolded—inner surface tessellated into continents, seas, shimmering archipelagos. My focus snapped to the Crooked Mountains, a charcoal skein wrapping the interior horizon beneath the miniature central sun. Mineral density index: High. Player population: Low. Perfect.
Accept.
"Content disclaimer," the system intoned. A fresh window:
By entering Endless Worlds you agree to Orbital Dreams Pty Ltd Terms of Service. Gameplay may affect neural-linked emotional states.
Orbital Dreams reserves the right to adjust, suspend, roll back or terminate character data in response to anomalous metrics.
Fairly standard legalese—except for "anomalous metrics." I swallowed as the phantom Ore Sense glitch tickled memory. Probably nothing.
Accept.
The copper iris widened, engulfed me in incandescent light. My gut lurched the way an elevator free-falls one floor before brakes bite; then sensation inverted and I was weightless, falling upward into—
{LOADING… 1 %}
Gel turned to wind. Voices whispered sub-audibly: clinks of picks, distant blacksmith hammers, the creak of ropes. The loading bar crawled.
5 %
9 %
A static crackle rose in my audio channel like someone tuning an old shortwave. Abruptly a secondary prompt ruptured across centre:
<>
Extensible Charisma parameter exceeds racial threshold.
Applying balancing modifier …
<
"What?" I tried to select the translucent text, but the loading bar jumped to 14 % and the message dissolved.
"Balancing modifier?" Maybe the engine penalised min-maxers if an attribute spiked too far out of band. Fine—debuff or no, I just needed rocks.
20 %
The bar crept with malicious slowness. My heart throbbed behind the gel visor. I inhaled the sterile pod air, exhaled, counted the banknotes already lost to Luca if this gambit failed.
32 %
Memories insisted on surfacing: Vee's silver magpie pin, Anna's worried eyes across the breakfast counter, Mitya's sleepy question—"Is that a spaceship?"
40 %
I'd told them I'd sleep in the capsule, save time. Truth: if I'd closed my eyes outside the pod I'd have dreamed of debt collectors with bolt-cutters for hands. At least here, terror had progress bars.
61 %
My right shoulder twitched. Phantom limb from the night shift hammering rebar ties. Painkillers overdue. I flexed digital fingers—no ache. Good sign: immersion displacement working.
78 %
Static flared again, white lightning across my peripheral HUD.
SYSTEM ALERT: DATASTREAM / M 289 / Ω
****—— —------ SIGNAL LOST
Gone. Loading resumed.
90 %
98 %
A hush.
100 %
The void shattered into colour, brightness so fierce I reflexively raised an arm. Mountain air cut across my cheeks, crisp and cold, smelling of quartz dust and cedar smoke. I stood on a stone-flagged platform—more a wide outcrop—jutting from a cliff face. Above, the sky was a metallic turquoise, darker than any earthly firmament, and at dead centre of that impossible firmament burned a miniature sun no bigger than my thumb, gold and steady, washed by swirling aurora veils.
Wind tugged the hem of my wax-canvas coat. My boots felt new but heavy. Somewhere below, water roared—maybe a cataract plummeting into a ravine. I heard chains clinking, the mutter of distant voices carried upslope.
A chime bloomed:
[YOU HAVE ENTERED: CROOKED MOUNTAINS – ROOKERY PLATEAU (SAFE ZONE)]
Weather: Clear, 6 °C.
Local time: 12:14
I flexed fingers again, half checking dexterity, half disbelief. Neural feedback rendered the leather gloves' grain microscopic against my palms.
My HUD icon pulsed: Press to view basic controls.
I snorted. Forty-plus hours of research and muscle memory from every RPG I'd touched since grade school—they couldn't teach me much in the basics panel, but opening it cleared the blinking arrow, so I obliged.
A square tutorial card listed locomotion gestures, inventory access, map commands—exactly as expected. I flicked it closed.
Another note hovered at chest height.
Starter Package Unclaimed. Open now?
Yes.
The package materialised with a spark, unpacking into three items placed neatly at my feet: a Wooden Pickaxe (Durability 30/30, +5 % Mining Speed), a Cloth Rucksack (Capacity 30 kg) and five Loaf of Hardtack (Restores 50 Stamina over 30 s).
UI scrolled as the items hit inventory.
[Loot Acquired: Wooden Pickaxe ×1]
[Loot Acquired: Cloth Rucksack ×1]
[Loot Acquired: Hardtack ×5]
A wooden signpost nearby pointed along a descending path etched into the cliff. Letters burned white: Beginner's Village →.
Footsteps sounded behind me—heavy, deliberate. I turned.
An NPC dwarf ascended from a switchback staircase, shoulders broader than some of the foremen I'd worked under, beard in triple braids, iron spectacles perched precariously. His tunic bore a faded Miners' Guild gear emblem.
"Ah! Fresh blood at last," he said, voice like gravel in a coffee grinder. "Name's Gus—Old Gus to most. You the new rock-biter boys said was coming?"
"Guess so," I replied, surprised at the text-to-speech lips syncing perfectly with a thick burr. "Call me Orefinder."
He eyed me top to toe, then grunted amusement. "Gnome, eh? Not many of your lot around anymore—most took cushy guild seats when the brass bowed out. You planning to push a pick or just sightsee?"
"Pick," I said. "Mine, smelt, sell."
"That's the spirit. Here." He produced a low-tech wrist slate and tapped. A quest pane floated before my eyes.
┌─ QUEST OFFER: 'Cut Your Teeth' ─────────────────────────────┐
│Objective: Mine 10 Copper Ore from Tunnel #3 │
│Reward: 300 XP • 1 Silver • Old Gus's Beginner Pick (Q 8) │
│Note: Copper nodes glow green for new miners. │
│Failure: None │
└─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
Accept / Decline
I didn't hesitate: Accept.
Quest Accepted: Cut Your Teeth
"Tunnel Three's that way." Gus thumbed toward the path. "Watch your footing. Lads cleaned it yesterday but you know copper—likes to crumble. Bring the ore to me, and we'll weigh your haul."
"Got it," I said, hefting the wooden pick. It felt light, balanced—not unlike a geologist's rock hammer scaled up. Familiar.
Gus leaned closer, spectacles glinting. "There's something about you, lad," he mused. "No idea what yet, but my bones say you'll sniff ore where others just smell dirt. Don't waste it."
My heart kicked. Did he somehow sense the hidden perk? Impossible—NPC scripts weren't that meta. Probably random encouragement lines.
"Thanks, Gus."
He nodded once and stomped past, muttering about rookies who couldn't tell galena from garnet.
I watched him go, then drew in a long breath of cold, mineral-sharp air. Nerves fluttered, part exhilaration, part raw desperation: first quest, first step toward forty-plus grand of freedom.
Downslope, the path coiled through lichen-blotched granite, pine stumps jutting like broken tusks. Each step sent tiny puffs of dust swirling around boot toes—developers had nailed particulate physics. And somewhere deeper, through mountain skin, through kilometres of rock and ore, my imagination tingled with the promise of copper's green-gold sheen.
A tremor prickled behind my eyes, a sense of pull like compass needles aligning. Instinct? Or that phantom perk flexing beneath the HUD?
Either way, I tightened gloved fingers on the pick and started down, head full of family faces and the dull rasp of a pay-or-die ledger.
Time to earn my first silver.
Chapter 3: Tutorial in the Crooked Mountains
Cold sunlight slanted across granite as my boots crunched onto the trail, and for an instant I forgot the pod, the damp apartment, the ledger in my vest back home. Wind sluiced down from peaks that curved impossibly upward into the sphere's distant ceiling, carrying the metallic scent of frost and sulphur-rich stone. Somewhere below, hammers rang in a dwarven cadence—ping-ping-clunk—like a forge keeping time for the whole mountain. Six degrees Celsius, the HUD whispered; my breath smoked.
I'd barely rounded the first switchback when the path tightened into a slot between quartz ribs. Veins of malachite threaded the rock like green lightning, confirmation that copper lurked nearby. Reflex pressed thumb to forefinger, rubbing phantom soil—old habit from survey days—but the only grit was sim-air and nerves.
Quest tracker pulsed.
┌─ Quest: Cut Your Teeth ─────────────────────┐
│Mine Copper Ore in Tunnel #3 0 / 10 │
│Return to Old Gus for payment. │
└───────────────────────────────────────────────┘
Straightforward: swing, haul, cash. Family maths ticked behind my eyes—ten ore, one silver, fifty Aussie cents. At that rate I'd need nine thousand lumps of copper to make Vinny vanish, ignoring interest. Better tools, richer ore, and miracles would have to close the gap, but first silver was still first blood.
The trail kinked again and spilled onto a shelf overlooking a timbered adit mouth. Hand-painted sign: TUNNEL #3 – BEGINNER OPERATION. A rickety cart blocked half the entrance, its wheels caked in dry rust. Beside it, a coal-braiser lantern guttered, painting shadows on the plank supports.
"Looks quiet," I muttered.
In answer, a system ping crystal-chirped.
[Environmental Notice: Structural Integrity 78 % – minor collapse risk.]
Good to know. I ducked inside. The temperature dropped two degrees, breath pluming thicker. Tunnel walls shimmered where runoff had frozen in translucent sheets. Every footstep thunked in damp echo.
I flicked on low-light vision. The world shifted—greys deepened, edges sharpened, copper traces glowed faintly like ember filaments behind the rock. Not Ore Sense, just racial night-sight, but it still felt like cheating compared to bare eyes. Wooden pick balanced across my shoulder, I advanced, scanning strata.
Ten metres in, the passage forked: right branch well-lit, hack-marks obvious; left branch narrow, half-filled with slumped rubble. The obvious vein would already be half-chipped by yesterday's rookies. Profit lived where others avoided work. I stepped left.
The rubble slope crackled underfoot. Slate slabs slid; pebbles rattled into darkness. I crouched, palm on the wall, reading the geology the way some folks read tea leaves. Quartz lenses, oxidised halo, chalcopyrite glints—copper's fingerprint. But deeper, under the smell of wet stone, something tugged at awareness. A directional itch between the eyes. South-west, downslope.
Instinct? Maybe. Or maybe that ghost-perk flexing. Either way, only one way to test.
I wedged boots, lifted the pick. "Time to earn rent." The first swing rang satisfying as a bell strike. Chips flew. System kicked a progress bar in my periphery: Copper Node Integrity 97 %. Fourth strike, fractures webbed. On the sixth, a fist-sized chunk cleaved free, half malachite, half dull copper bloom.
[+1 Copper Ore]
A grin cracked my face. I stowed the lump in the rucksack, weight registering: 0.7 kg. Nine to go.
Repetition settled in—the meditative rhythm I remembered from lab cores and Kalgoorlie quarries: observe, angle, strike, twist, collect. Muscles warmed; pick grooves bit deeper. Soon notifications stitched a ticker-tape.
[Mining +1 → 2]
[Mining +1 → 3]
Skill creeping already. Good.
Half an hour later, ore count read 7 / 10 and the pack dragged at my shoulders. The tug in my skull pulsed stronger, like a heartbeat transmitted through bedrock. I followed it down a side slit barely wider than my frame, scraping coat fabric and bruising ego. Thirty metres in, lantern light vanished behind a bend; only low-light kept me safe from shins on unseen rocks.
Pulse—there. A patch of wall oozed green fire under vision filter. I pressed gloved fingers to it; stone thrilled like distant thunder. Definitely copper, maybe more.
Pick kissed the spot—and the rock yelped. No, not rock: a chirr, skitter of claws. Shadows exploded; something small and winged slashed past my ear, shrieking. Bat? Too big. The creature looped, slammed onto the ceiling, eyes phosphor-white. Cave Spryte, the compendium murmured from memory—level two nuisance mob, low HP, toxin scratch. Its shriek summoned echoes: more wings unfolding in darkness.
System flashed red.
[Alert: Cave Spryte Swarm Detected – 5 Targets]
I backed three steps, heart thumping real-time, not simulated. Pick ready.
First spryte dive-bombed. I swung, misjudged, air-whiff. Scratch lines burned across cheek—haptic feedback pinpricks. HP bar shaved 3 %. Not lethal but insult stung.
Second came, I pivoted, hammer-end crunching brittle bone. [Critical Hit! Cave Spryte – Defeated.] It burst into pixel shards, dropping nothing but satisfaction.
The remaining four split: two feints, two direct. I ducked under one, rammed haft upward into its belly—[Hit 14]. Another talon rake scored shoulder fabric. Poison icon blinked yellow; timer sixty seconds. Great.
Two left twined in mid-air, wings beating dust. I hefted a rock from rubble pile, channelled school-cricket memory, and hurled. Direct strike. Spryte squealed, pin-wheeled into wall. Debris avalanched; it vanished under scree. Last one wavered, reconsidering prey maths. I growled my best cave-troll impression; it fled screeching into cracks.
Silence returned, broken by drip-water. Poison countdown hit zero, leaving minor stamina drain. I spat copper taste.
"Too handsome for bats, huh?" I muttered, wiping cheek. Blood smeared glove. Good note: cure-pots next shopping trip.
I re-examined the glowing wall. Strike marks from earlier still there. With cautious pace I resumed mining, and within minutes a thick slab detached—three ore at once, node exhausted.
[+3 Copper Ore]
Quest progress 10 / 10 – Complete!
Blue surge flooded vision.
[Quest Complete: Cut Your Teeth]
Reward: 300 XP | +1 Silver | Old Gus's Beginner Pick (Quality 8)
Level-up ping piggy-backed.
[Level Up! 0 → 1]
Auto-stat allocation: STR +1, VIT +1
Status window unfurled.
┌─ Orefinder – Level 1 Gnome Artificer ─────────────┐
│HP 120/120 Stamina 140/150 MP 40/40 │
│STR 9 AGI 12 VIT 12 INT 15 PER 15 LCK 9 │
│Skills: Mining 3, Surveying 1 │
│Perks: Low-Light Vision (?) Ore Sense (Dormant) │
└───────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
Dormant, huh. At least the sheet acknowledged it now—first time the text hadn't flickered out. Felt like peeking at a loaded dice I wasn't supposed to know I held.
Pack heavy with ore and adrenaline fading, I retraced to main passage. Air tasted staler—the collapse earlier? No, subtle vibrations now tremored through soles. Distant booms, timed like hammerfalls.
Ahead, a dim glow grew—torch-gold and ember. I emerged into the wider tunnel mouth where Old Gus awaited, foot on overturned crate, spectacles fogged by pipe smoke.
He eyed my bulging rucksack, then the scratches on my face. "Tunnel Sprytes give you a love-tap, did they?"
"Mutual exchange of viewpoints," I said, dropping the sack beside scales. Copper clanged. "Ten units, as asked."
Gus whistled. "Looks more like thirteen." He weighed each lump on brass scale pans, moustache twitching approval. "Not bad for a greenhorn. Can usually spot the difference between malachite and moss, then?"
"Helps when the rock glows," I said before brain caught up. His eyebrow climbed. "Er—low-light vision makes veins pop, that's all."
"Hm." He scribbled on parchment. "As promised." He flicked a silver coin—a broad dwarven decar—toward me; it landed in my palm with satisfying heft. UI auto-converted: [Currency +1 Silver]. Fifty cents. One small loaf of bread for actual children.
"And your bonus." From crate he produced a sturdier pick engraved with simple runes. "Q-eight steel, won't blunt on first bit of iron."
[Item Acquired: Beginner Pickaxe – Steel (Dur 50/50) Mining Speed +12 %]
I accepted with reverence; even the haptic texture felt smoother, balance perfect. "Spasibo, Gus."
He puffed. "Don't thank me yet. Jobs only get harder. Speaking of—town armory wants copper shipment by sunset. You free to deliver?"
A fetch quest. Time-for-money ratio poor, but every XP tick counted and the walk would test stamina load. "I'm game."
He handed parchment receipt. "Head down trail to Bristlecone Hamlet. Sell directly to Quartermaster Hobson. Watch the switchbacks—ice likes to break ankles."
I slung pack anew, muscles protesting. On exit, system chimed soft.
[Hidden Achievement Unlocked: First Vein]
Effect: +1 % Mining yield, Copper nodes
A spark I hadn't asked for; maybe tied to mining extra ore in one session. Or maybe the buggy perk brushing system counters. Either way, margin mattered.
Outside, sun had edged along its impossible central arc, bleaching clouds gold. I started toward the hamlet path, boots imprinting frost. One silver in pocket, upgraded tool on shoulder, and a faint electric thrill of progress warming inside ribcage.
Nine thousand silvers to go. Swing by swing, vein by vein—slow grind was still grind. But for the first time since Luca's ledger hit my palm, debt felt less like a boulder and more like ore: hard, heavy, yet breakable with the right strikes.
Leaning into the downtrail wind, I set the pick's rhythm against my pace—thunk-step, thunk-step—and the mountain answered in distant, eager echoes.
Chapter 4: The Slow Grind Begins
Brisk mountain wind chased me downhill as the sun's brass coin slid toward the horizon, but the receipt from Old Gus stayed crisp in my pocket. Bristlecone Hamlet huddled on a stone shelf below me—half a dozen slate-roof buildings, a smithy belching sparks, and a stockade that looked more decorative than defensive. The moment my boots hit the muddy main street, a notification pulsed.
≪Location Discovered: Bristlecone Hamlet – Pop. 143≫
The village smelled of pine tar, wet wool and, oddly enough, burnt sugar. A flock of NPC children scattered around my ankles, chasing a hoop. They glanced up, giggled at the sight of a squat gnome in a too-big coat, then sprinted on. Their laughter felt warmer than the sun.
Quartermaster Hobson's office squatted against the inner cliff wall, its door reinforced with iron bands thick as my forearm. I rapped twice; hinges squealed and a barrel-chested man in a stained uniform peered out. His moustache resembled an invertebrate that had lost a fight.
"Delivery?" he barked.
"Copper receipt from Old Gus." I handed over the parchment before he could comment on height.
He scanned the wax seal, grunted approval, and dug into a lockbox. "Standard courier fee—two silvers." A pair of heavy coins clinked into my palm. The UI obligingly tallied my fortune.
[Currency +2 Silver | Total: 3 Silver]
Half a loaf of real bread, I thought. Progress.
Hobson squinted closer, nostrils flaring. "You look… tidy for a tunnel rat."
High Charisma at work, maybe, but the remark held no malice—just curiosity. I offered a shrug. "First day. I'll be dirtier tomorrow."
"Huh. See the smith if that pick needs sharpening." Door slammed.
Outside, fading light splashed molten gold across the hamlet. I exhaled, shoulders loosening. Three silvers wouldn't dent Vinny's ledger, yet the coins felt heavier than hope itself. A chime interrupted:
≪Quest Complete: Deliver Receipt≫
Reward → 150 XP | 2 Silver | Reputation +1 (Hamlet Logistics)
My XP bar nudged. Not enough for a level, but the dopamine nonetheless.
I crossed to the smithy where a broad-backed woman hammered red steel. Sparks skittered off my boots. She glanced up, eyes like river stones.
"Sharpen?" she asked.
"Please."
She held out a soot-black palm; I surrendered the Beginner Steel Pick. Her fingers lingered on the rune-etched head. "Nice balance. Keep it oiled." She worked the whetstone in rhythmic strokes. I watched durability climb.
[Pickaxe Durability 42 → 50/50] | Cost: 10 copper
Coin transferred; the blade gleamed like winter starlight. I thanked her—"spasibo"—and stepped back into dusk.
A memory pinged: sunset deadline met; the pod timer would mirror Perth evening soon. Kids would need dinner. I opened the logout interface but hesitated. Could squeeze one more task before real-world chores—and every copper counted.
Across the square, a noticeboard rattled in the wind, plastered with parchment:
– WANTED: Broken Cart Wheels Repaired (Reward 30 XP, 10 copper)
– Pest Cull – Molerats in Cellar (Reward 50 XP, 20 copper)
– Courier Needed: Spare Nails to Smithy (Reward 10 XP, 2 copper)
Low pay, low risk—exactly my weight class. I jabbed the cellar job; parchment dissolved and a UI card bloomed.
≪Quest Accepted: "Boots in the Cellar" – Exterminate 6 Molerats≫
Hobson's assistant led me to a stone-walled storeroom behind the office. The air reeked of old onions and ammoniac. Lamplight flickered over burlap stacks and tiny black eyes. The rodents—larger than farm rabbits—scuttled, baring needle teeth. My HP sat full, poison debuff long gone. Easy.
The first swing crunched bone; the animal burst in a puff of polygons. [Hit –9 HP | Molerat 0/25] Four more strikes later, I was breathing hard but victorious.
≪Quest Complete: Boots in the Cellar≫
Reward → 50 XP | 20 copper | Molerat Hide ×2
The hides weighed nothing; I stuffed them into the rucksack. Then, with real pressure rising, I logged out.
Gel warmth drained from my skin; pod lid hissed open. Perth night pressed close—humid, carrying the scent of fried onions from a neighbour's unit. Apartment lights were off save the kitchenette strip. Anna had taped a note to the fridge: Mitya reading for English test; fed him noodles; don't forget rent envelope. A smile tugged despite exhaustion.
I microwaved leftover rice, slapped on soy sauce, and ate standing up. Three silvers equalled $1.50; not earth-shattering, but after bills and fear, hope tasted better than salt.
Phone buzzed. Unknown number—no, not unknown: Luca's area code. My stomach fell.
Tick-tock, golden boy. Week's half gone. Feed the magpie or he pecks.
Thumbs trembling, I deleted the message. No reply would satisfy him.
Mitya's bedroom door cracked open. "You okay, Kolya?"
I forced cheer. "Fine. Go to sleep, malysh."
He nodded, hair matted, and closed the door. I scrubbed dishes, set alarms, crawled back into the pod.
Logging in deposited me at Bristlecone square under star-choked night. NPC lanterns lit the street, their radius soft orange. My stamina bar sat full; pick felt restless in hand. Time to start the grind.
Mini-Arc I: Midnight Copper
I hiked back to Tunnel #3. Sprytes kept their distance tonight, sensing the new sharpness of my steel head. The pick's rhythm merged with heartbeat. Copper bits landed faster now, glow bright under low-light vision. Each swing flashed incremental progress:
[Mining Skill ↑ 3 → 4]
[Copper Ore ×5]
Fifteen loads later—and one UI reminder to stretch—I hauled sacks to Gus. The dwarf nodded approval, paid market rate: 1 silver per 10 copper ore plus a smirk. By dawn, inventory read 8 silver, muscles sang, and XP bar crept to 73 %. Stat sheet popped without prompt.
── Stats ─────────────────
Level 1 | XP 73 %
STR 9 AGI 12 VIT 12 INT 15 PER 15 LCK 9
Skills: Mining 4, Surveying 1
Perks: Low-Light Vision, Ore Sense (Dormant)
────────────────────────
I dismissed it, eyes half-closing with satisfaction. Ore Sense flickered again—letters bright, then dim. Soon.
Back in real life, alarm dragged me out to fry eggs, pack lunches, hustle kids to the bus. Anna eyed the plum circles under my eyes. "You slept at all?"
"Catnap," I said. "The pod's comfy."
She didn't believe me, but she let it go.
Mini-Arc II: Day-Shift Doldrums
After school drop-off, I relogged. The hamlet buzzed; NPC masons carried slate, a scripting note to players that world time advanced. A new breadcrumb quest shimmered over the bulletin:
Cart Repair – Deliver Reinforced Spokes to Stablemaster Katya.
Reward: 60 XP, 15 copper, +5 Stamina Potion.
Stamina potions meant longer mining bursts. I accepted.
Katya gestured at a broken wagon. "Spokes are stacked yonder. Fit 'em proper."
Simple mini-game: align pegs, hammer, check durability. I nailed the rhythm, and UI rewarded finesse: Cart-Crafting Skill unlocked (Rank I). Not a primary goal but every skill could sell later.
Mid-quest, the pod's internal speakers chimed—external call request. I frowned and opened audio, routing only voice. Vinny's nasal drawl oozed through virtual air.
"Lovely day, Kolya. You at work?"
"Busy," I muttered, hammer missing a beat.
"You remember next Thursday? Luca hates lateness."
"Working on it."
"You'd better."
Line cut. I exhaled, heart thrashing. Stablemaster's animated eyebrow lifted. Maybe script; maybe my own guilt.
Quest completed; potion flask landed in bag. No coin paid debt yet, but XP dinged louder than fear.
≪Level Up! 1 → 2≫
Stat gain auto-allocated:
STR +1 | Mining Speed +2 %
Sheet updated.
I grinned. Progress wasn't linear—it was a staircase, each ding a step.
That afternoon I logged out again, cooked reheated curry rice, forced myself through squats while kids did homework—pod warnings about atrophy weren't kidding.
Mini-Arc III: Dawn of Ore Sense
Third login of the day dropped me in the tunnel network. My plan: follow Old Gus's rumor about a side adit rich in malachite. Map data lacked coordinates, but something inside my forehead tugged south-east: a gentle magnetic pull.
I followed.
Walls wept condensation; fungi glowed faint violet, lighting slick rails of an abandoned ore cart track. Where rails ended, I knelt, touched rock. A vibration—not physical—thrummed through my palm. The sheet beeped.
≪NEW PERK ACTIVATED: Ore Sense I≫
Passive: Highlights metal deposits within 15 m. Cooldown 30 s
Lines of code no longer hiding—System had accepted the anomaly. Copper halos ignited behind the wall, but deeper, a second colour pulsed—ruddy like hematite. Iron? Beyond my skill maybe, yet knowledge thrilled.
I slung the pick and swung at the copper; ore exploded in flakes. Two swings produced three lumps. Efficiency jumped.
[Copper Yield Bonus +1 % → applied]
[Mining Skill ↑ 4 → 5]
Achievements stacked:
≪Hidden Achievement: Journeyman Digger≫
Effect: +2 % Swing Speed
Sweat trickled—VR gel translated effort into haptic heat. I wiped brow, though no real salt existed.
Six hours blurred into a loop: swing, collect, dodge occasional spryte, sprint to surface to sell, log out, stretch, hydrate, kiss siblings goodnight, dive back in. The pick's durability ticked down; I spent 20 copper on edge maintenance. Pocket jangled with coin.
By the fifth real-world day the routine had names:
05:30 Perth — Wake, make lunches.
06:30 — Mining Session A (in-game 08:00-15:00).
12:30 — Logout, eat noodles; construction shift IRL.
18:00 — Session B (Dyson evening).
22:00 — Dinner for kids, maths homework checking.
23:00 — Session C (night mining).
Sleep? Four broken hours if lucky; caffeine patches filled gaps.
UI Stat sheet Friday night:
── Stats ─────────────────
Level 4 | XP 11 %
STR 11 AGI 13 VIT 13 INT 15 PER 16 LCK 9
Skills: Mining 5, Surveying 2, Cart-Crafting 1
Perks: Low-Light Vision, Ore Sense I (CD 30 s), Hidden Cursed Handsome (undisclosed)
Currency: 32 Silver 55 Copper
────────────────────────
Thirty-two silvers—sixteen Australian dollars. Enough to pay electricity, at least. A laugh bubbled, half joy, half hysteria.
A message pinged from Old Gus: Meet me at the crusher belt 0600 for iron tour. More advanced ore, likely higher pay.
I logged out, massaged cramped wrists. Apartment windows rattled—Perth winds carried sand this time of year. Anna slept on sofa, maths texts open. I draped a blanket, heart aching.
Phone glowed: battery 3 %. Another text from Vinny: Bird's getting hungry. I muted notifications.
Sleep, finally.
Saturday dawn. Kids occupied with cartoons and cereal; I brewed instant coffee, tasted more floor-sweep than bean, and climbed into the pod.
Gus waited by a steam-driven conveyor chewing a cigar stub. "'Bout time, lad."
He handed a cold-iron lamp. "Iron veins past Widow's Bridge. Tougher rock, needs stronger swing. Payment's triple copper rate."
"Point me."
We crossed a rope span above a gorge where lava belched embers into artificial twilight. My stomach knotted at the void's depth, but Gus stumped onward whistling. Ore Sense tingled constantly, lighting veins through the opposite wall.
Tutorial over; this was real work.
Iron took ten swings per chunk. Arms burned. Gus corrected stance, guided me to wedge chisel first, conserve stamina. By midday we'd filled two carts.
System rewards stacked: Mining Skill didn't rise—cap at 5 needed skill book—but XP did.
[Quest Complete: First Iron Haul]
Reward → 500 XP | 5 Silver | Pick Durability Kit
Level-up fanfare:
≪Level Up! 4 → 5≫
Auto-stat: STR +1, PER +1
Skill unlock: Smelting (Rank I)
Gus grinned, beard swaying. "Not bad for a pretty-boy gnome."
Pretty? I flushed. Cursed Handsomeness whispering again. Gus slapped my back. "Town foundry's hiring smelters. Talk to Master Branka. Decent coin if you don't mind heat."
Coin. Yes.
On return to Bristlecone, the foundry roared like a dragon. Branka, an orc woman with tusks capped in copper, sized me up. "You swing pick; can you pour metal?"
"Give me half a chance," I said.
She thrust a crudely forged ladle at me. "Shift starts now."
Mini-game: maintain pour angle, avoid slag splash, keep furnace at 1 200 °C. Real geology background helped; I remembered phase diagrams. Branka watched approvingly as ingots cooled square.
≪Skill Gain: Smelting 0 → 2≫
Wage: 4 copper per ingot; 25 ingots poured — 1 Silver
More silver, more hope.
Sun set inside the sphere; real-world clock hit noon. Kids would be starved for lunch. I bowed to Branka, pocketed wage, logged out.
Kitchen smelled of burnt popcorn—Mitya's latest attempt. I whipped up toasted cheese, tried not to wobble. Anna eyed me. "You're pale."
"Long shift." I swigged water. "But wages." I flicked her phone screen to show OrbCoin balance equivalent: $23. Her eyes widened then dimmed. "Still short."
"Step by step," I said. She hugged me; I winced at sore shoulders.
Montage Week End
— Sunday: Iron again; Mining skill plateau but Smelting climbs; pick durability repaired twice.
— Monday IRL: Construction site, trench collapse scare; I analyse soil, save crew five hours; foreman pays cash bonus $40 which goes straight to grocery.
— Monday night in-game: Delivery quest chain expands—nails to smithy, wool bales, stone samples. Reputation with Hamlet Logistics hits Friendly.
≪Reputation Up: Hamlet Logistics – Friendly≫
Friendly status granted discount: 5 % on repairs. Silver stretches farther.
Ore Sense cooldown shrinks with mild unlocking: Ore Sense II – Range 25 m, Cooldown 20 s after hidden achievement Hundred Swings.
UI confirmed:
Perks: Ore Sense II (CD 20 s) | Bonus +2 % yield Copper/Iron
The System still hadn't revealed Cursed Handsomeness or the "Anomalous Metrics" tag, but lag spikes increased during perk activations. I noted times; maybe pattern later.
Late Wednesday, three days before Luca's deadline, my coin purse hit 58 silver—barely AUD 29. Grief welled. Even with foundry wage and ore sales I was crawling. Luca wanted seventy-plus dollars a day. Impossible curve.
Desperation breeds efficiency—or recklessness. That night, hammering pick in Widow's Bridge adit, Ore Sense lit a secondary node deeper behind unstable shale. Huge density reading. Rich vein, maybe silver or gold. But structural integrity hovered 32 %. Collapse risk high.
Profit versus safety. The Osadchuk formula: pick the smarter risk.
I planted shoring wedges, lashed supports, advanced inch by inch. Each step the alarm chimed: [Warning – Structural Integrity 29 %]. I ignored thudding heart, swung.
Rock burst showered sparks—and revealed lustrous threads: native silver.
≪Rare Ore Discovered: Silver Vein≫
Default Sale Price: 15 copper/100 g
I cackled, then remembered silence is survival. Filled three sacks—node still half full but supports groaned. Ore Sense flashed red. Time to exit.
I backtracked—and tunnel shuddered. A boulder crashed, pulverising my previous stance. HUD screamed [Critical Event: Cave-In Imminent – RUN]
Stamina depleted. I switched to all fours, scrambling. Dust choked. Exit beam cracked behind me; darkness swallowed shaft as I tumbled onto safe ground. HP scraped to 42 %. But sacks remained.
Back in town, smelter offered contract rate. Three sacks equaled 11 silver. I negotiated 12 citing purity. Branka accepted. Charisma blessing? Curse? Who cared.
Currency: 70 Silver 12 Copper
Seventy silver—thirty-five bucks. Still shy, but hope skyrocketed. One more haul before Thursday could tip the scales.
I logged out, eyelids leaden. Phone chimed; Vinny again: picture of a magpie pecking watch face. Tick-tock. I slammed it facedown.
Thursday dawn predawn; exhaustion draped me. I prepped kids' lunches, kissed heads, whispered, "Tonight nachos, promise."
Pod swallowed me. Objective: replicate silver haul. Supports replaced, structural reading 45 %. I mined swift but careful. Halfway, sprytes swarmed—sound of wingbeats like tearing cloth. Pick met flesh, but poison debuff stacked. HP bled 10 % per tick. I swallowed a Stamina Potion, swung harder. Sprytes dead, but bar down to 18 %. I retreated.
Loot less but still good: seven silver ore. Branka bought at 8 silver. Wallet: 78 Silver 12 Copper.
In real exchange, 1 silver ≈ $0.50. Total = $39.06. Plus site paycheck due tomorrow. Enough to cover half the demanded 4 500. Not enough.
Hopelessness pressed—but Gus pinged: Town council needs stone sample for planned fort. Pay 25 silver. Twenty-five? My heart leaped.
"Accept."
Quest required fetching basalt core from Cliffknife Ridge, a two-hour hike real-time. I hesitated—deadline tonight 18:00.
Do the math. If success: total silver → 103 ≈ $51.5. Add tomorrow's wage: doable.
I sprinted.
Ridge path narrow, vultures circled. Basalt node tough; each swing drained stamina. But system gifted Geologist's Touch micro-proc—maybe Ore Sense synergy—earning +10 % extraction speed for five minutes. Core sample acquired; timer read 13:42. Plenty.
On return trail, an untextured polygon flickered—a glitch maybe. UI jittered, displayed:
<
Then vanished. Spine prickled. Anomalous metrics again.
I delivered stone to council scribe. He paid 25 silver and a voucher for inn discount. My purse crossed triple digits.
Currency: 103 Silver 12 Copper
I fist-pumped.
Logout 17:10. Showered cold. Pulled crumpled bills—construction site had paid daily. Combined real dollars plus OrbCoin conversion: $72. Enough.
Café rendezvous 18:00. I pedalled bike across streets glowing amber. Luca's Magpie Café sign flickered neon.
Inside, Vee sat stirring espresso with a toothpick.
I slid envelope across table. "Seventy-two dollars."
He counted, lips pursed. "Little short."
"Exchange rate dipped. This covers interest plus fifty principal."
Silence stretched. Finally he pocketed money. "Boss likes progress. Sunday next instalment. Same time."
I exhaled, tension leaking. Time bought.
Outside, sky bruised, but stars glittered like ore through void. I breathed deep diesel-meets-jacaranda scent, felt muscles protest, felt alive.
Debt dragon still loomed, but pick in hand, hidden perk humming, and each silver paid carved scales from its hide.
Tomorrow: deeper tunnels, richer metals, maybe allies. Tonight: nachos.
I pedalled home, city lights curving above like Dyson constellations, and for the first time in weeks the ledger in my mind felt lighter than the pick on my virtual shoulder.
Chapter 5: Danger in the Depths
The mountain coughed thin white steam as dawn bled over the inner sky, yet I felt no warmth. A week of copper and iron runs had toughened my muscles and fattened my coin-purse to a princely eighty-odd silver, but Luca Spadaro's ledger still dangled like a noose in my back pocket. If I meant to keep my family's kneecaps intact, I needed bigger strikes—richer veins—before the next debt payment came due. Old Gus's maps showed an abandoned tunnel system two ridges east, flagged unstable and monster-infested by half a dozen caution sigils. Perfect.
I double-checked my kit on the windswept loading dock outside Bristlecone Hamlet. Beginner Steel Pick—edge keen after the smithy's whetstone; spare haft lashed to my pack. Three Stamina Potions the color of antifreeze. A coil of hemp rope, chalk for marking branches, and two jury-rigged blasting charges I'd traded for at the Union co-op. My breath fogged the air like cheap incense. Somewhere behind me, a rooster crowed, and the HUD chimed.
≪Timed Quest Reminder: "Debt Collector" – 10 days remaining≫
I snorted. No pressure, сидеть, just a polite countdown to bone-saws and concrete boots. I willed the prompt away and started crunching up the frost-slick trail.
The entrance to Tunnel Six—unofficially nicknamed Widow's Teeth—squatted beneath a jagged overhang that looked ready to guillotine trespassers. Someone had nailed a warped notice board beside the mouth; most of the parchment warnings were bleached illegible. One line of fresh charcoal glared: RAT INFESTATION—ENTER AT OWN RISK. Beneath it, a tiny skull doodle grinned.
"Da, very welcoming," I muttered, and ducked inside.
The air dropped ten degrees, swapping pine crispness for a damp miasma seasoned with ammonia and rot. My Low-Light Vision bled color from the world; the rocky corridor rendered itself in slate, ash, and smoky emerald highlights where oxidized minerals veined the walls. The mini-map painted blank space ahead—no official survey data this deep. Good. Where the System lacked information, competition dwindled.
A handful of steps in, the floor angled downward and narrowed. Water dripped somewhere ahead like a ticking metronome. I paused, swung the pick handle-first into my palm, and marked the wall with a chalk arrow. Always leave breadcrumbs; plenty of rookies had respawned minus their gear because they couldn't retrace a panic sprint.
A faint thrumming brushed the inside of my skull—Ore Sense II flickering even before I consciously invoked it. Something metallic lay ahead and below, richer than iron. My fingers itched. I centered breathing, triggered the perk.
≪Ore Sense II – Active | Range 25 m | Cool-down 20 s≫
The darkness flared: overlapping heat-signatures gleamed beyond the eastern wall—dense clusters, maybe silver seams, or if Lady Fortuna loved me, electrum. My grin felt wolfish. Waypoints shimmered on the HUD like ghostly beacons.
First node sat roughly forty steps down-slope along a side corridor. I advanced, boots squelching in silt. With each breath the odor sharpened—mousey musk spiked with sour decay. I knew that stench from Kalgoorlie field trips: lair of carnivorous rodents.
Three meters in, the tunnel widened into a bulb chamber ribbed by old timber. Claw-marks scored the beams. Floor littered with bone splinters and ore cart wheels reduced to rusty petals. My Ore Sense icons overlapped bone piles—veins slithered behind them, tempting.
Caution, Kolya. Profit versus safety. The Osadchuk rule.
I inched forward, scanning ceiling fissures. Nothing moved. I swung once at a wall test-patch; flakes of grey stone and metallic shine showered the air.
[Mining Skill ↑ 5 → 6]
[Critical Strike! Ore Yield +1]
A fat silver lump clanged into my palm. I tucked it into the rucksack when a low hiss rasped behind me. I whirled.
Twin points of red glittered under a support beam. The creature slunk into view: twice the size of a real-world terrier, hide a mangy cross between mole and rat, incisors like ivory scimitars. Another pair of eyes winked behind it, then another—forming a semicircle of slinking bodies.
≪Mob Identified: Cave Rat (Level 6) × 8≫
Aggression: High | Pack AI Enabled
My pulse went sputnik. Level parity; one or two I could handle, eight was a buffet where I'd be the main course. I stepped back, raising the pick like a half-heart shield.
"Easy, droogs," I murmured. Rats didn't understand Russian, but talking steadied nerves.
Front-left rat lunged. I swung. Metal connected with skull—CRACK—rat crumpled.
[Hit –28 HP | Cave Rat – Defeated]
[Loot: Diseased Tooth × 1]
Seven left. They surged. I leapt sideways; claws shredded air where my thigh had been. Pain icons strobe—one nicked calf.
[HP –12 | Bleed 5 s]
Stamina bled faster. I'd never needed crowd control—my build was mining, not melee. Improvised environment, then.
A sagging timber frame loomed over the entryway. Two support wedges held it upright; remove them and gravity would gift me a barrier. I sprinted under, rats hot behind.
Pick handle jab—first wedge popped. A rat chomped my boot; teeth scraped greaves—cheap leather shrieked. I hammered second wedge.
THOOM. Beam and half the ceiling sagged. Scree avalanche sealed the gap, crushing two rats beneath. UI scrolled damage list. Four survivors clawed at the debris, squealing rage.
Cue explosives.
I fished the first powder-charge from my belt, set timer: three seconds. Thumb flick, toss over the mound. The fuse sizzled like frying bacon. I dove to the side press against wall.
BOOM.
Shockwave slapped lungs. Dust geyser coated vision. The HUD flashed hazard orange then settled. Silence—but for a single rhythmic skritch beyond the smoke. One lived.
Coughing, I edged up. The dust thinned, revealing the alpha rat—larger, scarred, still mobile despite shrapnel peppering its flank. The beast fixed eyes on me, lips bubbling foam.
Alpha rats had an ability—Desperation Frenzy—boost speed and damage at low HP. I'd read the wiki.
"Ladno," I muttered, adjusting grip. This would hurt.
It charged, impossibly fast. I side-stepped; claws clipped arm—pain needles through haptic matrix. I reversed momentum, burying pick spike in its spine. Weight yanked my shoulders. Rat shrieked, trying to twist. I planted boot on its haunch and ripped the pick free. Another strike—skull splintered. It collapsed, twitching.
[Cave Rat Alpha – Defeated!]
XP +150 | Loot: Rat Fang (Uncommon), Stringy Meat × 2
[Achievement Unlocked: "Pied Piper" – Survive Pack Encounter]
Reward: +1 Vitality, +5% Fear-Resist vs Beast-type
My HP pulsed 41/120. Almost half bar gone, stamina 32%. Hands trembled, whether from adrenaline or haptic back-feed I couldn't say. But the chamber was mine.
I chugged a Stamina Potion—burning spearmint flavor assaulted taste buds. Bar refilled.
Timer ticked; Ore Sense cool-down ready. I popped it, scanning for reinforcements. Only cold veins glowed. Good. Time to profit.
I set pick to the wall behind crushed rats. The stone was harder than copper strata, but +6 Mining and adrenaline made rhythm easy: raise, turn wrist on impact, pry. Chips flew. After fifteen swings:
[Ore Extracted: Silver Ore × 3]
[Mining +1 → 7]
Sweat slicked brow even in simulated cold. I shifted stance, warding off latency cramps, and resumed. Another swing; cracks feathered deeper than expected, exposing a darker seam—metallic blue-white. I blinked.
Silver didn't shine like that. Mithral? No. The compendium said deeper.
I scraped sample—grain fine, sheen oily, not native silver.
≪Identify Check: Geology 11≫
Mineral: Galena (Lead-Silver mix) | Purity 72%
Worth eight times plain silver ore at auction. Heart hammered.
I scored a rectangle around the exposed seam, levered wedge, watched a chunk the size of my forearm drop with a thunk. Backpack weight spiked.
[Galena Ore (Purity 72%) × 1 — Weight 13 kg]
Rucksack capacity crept into the yellow. I exhaled. Each galena chunk would sell for five silver, maybe six to a smelter. I needed five thousand silvers for Luca; this was still pennies, but rich pennies.
Time to secure the haul.
I chalked an X on the wall for a return pass, then traced waypoints back through rubble to the main shaft. I should've logged out, banked, come back fresh. But greed whispered. Ore Sense pinged again—another cluster deeper down the unexplored tunnel. If rats guarded galena here, what lay beyond?
Profit vs safety. System held that micro-choice every Osadchuk scene demanded. My debt tally flashed behind eyelids: $4 400 still owed. Anna's bus card running on fumes. The choice made itself. I pushed onward.
Two hundred meters later, tunnel cross-section shrank to crooked hexagon. Support timbers absent; just raw schist and quartz ribs. My boots sloshed through ankle-deep runoff. Ore Sense pulsed incessant—vein density off charts. But the HUD also flashed red.
[Environmental Warning: Structural Integrity 22% | Collapse Risk: Severe]
I stopped. Few more meters and rock above might pancake me into digital jam—respawn tax, item loss, time sink. Think.
I knelt, tested floor—the mud concealed rail grooves; old ore cart tracks. If I could anchor rope to a rail spike, crawl belly-low under weak ceiling, grab ore, and crawl out before it fell… Risk insane but feasible.
"Bozhe moi, Kolya, you're a stubborn fool," I muttered. Still, I unpacked rope, wedged pitons, tied harness figure-eight.
Low crawl engaged every trembling muscle. Helmet scraped stalactites; water soaked trousers in VR, phantom cold seeping. Each meter, Ore Sense icons swelled until a fever brightness filled vision—jackpot ahead.
Cave opened abruptly into a pocket chamber no larger than a classroom. Central pillar of raw ore jutted—lustrous blue-white veins spiraling through host rock—galena mixed with antimony and flecks of argentite. I gaped.
[Unexplored Node Discovered – Quality Rare]
Expected Yield: 120–160 kg mixed ore
Enough to double my bank if sold refined.
I unslung pick, mindful of echoes, and tapped near base. Stone rang glassy. Perfect.
Three swings: fragment cracked free. The chamber trembled, fine dust rain drifting from ceiling.
[Structural Integrity 15%]
One more chunk, I promised, just one.
I set pick, swung.
CRRRACK. The pillar split—massive hunk thudded onto pack harness. Status weight bar spiked into red. +26 kg. Breath came fast.
Then the world growled. Ceiling fractures spider-webbed overhead.
[Structural Integrity 7%]
[Immediate Collapse Imminent]
"Idu k chertu," I hissed, and scrambled for the exit.
Mud sucked boots; weight-drag slowed limbs. I dropped two lesser silver lumps to lighten load. Rope guided me along, but dust clouds turned vision soup.
First beam overhead snapped—whump. Debris crashed inches behind, sending shockwaves. HP ticked minus five from falling grit. I spat blood, kept crawling.
Tunnel ahead pinched where support boards had rotted. I shoved pack first, chest scraping rock. Another quake—floor heaved, water sloshed. Rear ceiling caved, sealing path behind with boulder blockade. My calf trapped under loose rock; HP nosedived.
Pain blasted, haptic nodes along my leg screaming.
[HP –18 | Bleed II]
[Movement Speed –25%]
Panic clawed, but I forced calm. Assess, act. I rotated torso, jammed pick blade under the rock, used leverage. STR 11 plus adrenaline overcame mass; stone rolled aside. Leg freed, though status added Fracture (Minor)—speed penalty persisted.
I limped forward. Exit shimmered maybe twenty meters. Rocks rained like hailstones.
Ten meters. My stamina meter nearly empty. I cracked the last potion—liquid ice down throat—stamina up 60.
Five. Daylight—the faint haze of isotope lamps in main shaft.
Final rumble roared—a ceiling slab the size of a truck dislodged right above. No time. I dove.
World blanked.
Pain vanished. Sight flared white, then reformed into Bristlecone's infirmary. Soft cotton sheets under back, antiseptic scent overlaying pine smoke. System message hovered.
[You Died]
Penalty: –5% XP towards next level | Dropped Loot: Galena Ore 13 kg, Silver Ore 4 kg | Durability –10% all equipped gear
I groaned. Not catastrophic—pack was mostly secured by rope harness, so maybe salvageable if corpse persisted. Drop timer: corpses persisted sixty minutes. I'd been offline maybe fifteen.
Nurse NPC bustled up. "Easy, miner. Tunnel bites hard."
"I need out," I rasped.
"Fracture simulated; bed rest recommended twelve hours."
"Not happening."
She sighed AI exasperation, but offered a Bone-Set Potion for 1 silver. I paid.
[Condition Cleared: Fracture]
I hobbled to gear rack, paid 5 copper for repair kit, patched pick and boots. Heart raced thinking of galena lying unguarded.
I sprinted—or tried to; 15% XP loss left stamina regen sluggish—across hamlet, down switchbacks, into still-dusty Tunnel Six approach. NPC barricade blocked mouth—two dwarf guards hefting war picks.
"Mine sealed," one barked. "Collapse hazard."
"Corpse retrieval," I panted, flashing Miners' Guild badge. "Personal belongings."
He eyed timer icon above my head—system tracked retrieval entitlement. He grudgingly stepped aside.
Inside, tunnel choked with debris. I navigated by memory, using side shoots where air burbled. Rat corpses still littered first chamber, pocked by scavenger bites. My previous chalk X gleamed faint despite dust.
Past collapse, route ended at a wall of stone. Corpse marker arrow pointed… beyond. Damn.
Options: dig or detour through unknown fissures maybe linking. Digging risked another cave-in. Detour risked getting lost. Timer: 27:42.
I picked detour.
Half-collapsed ventilation shaft jutted overhead; vertical crack enough for gnome to squeeze. I swarmed up, bruising ribs, shoving pack ahead. Shaft angled, widening into parallel drift. Ore Sense pinged null; good sign of less loaded strata—lower collapse chance.
Five minutes crawling landed me atop rubble pile—on far side of original cave-in. Corpse lay partially buried, UI highlighting bag. I slid down, yanked bag free. UI list showed:
– Galena Ore 1 × 13 kg
– Silver Ore ×4
– Diseased Tooth ×1
– Rat Fang (Uncommon) ×1
– Stringy Meat ×2
All intact. Relief flooded.
Now exfiltration.
I chose direct route backing through shaft; unstable but fastest. Timer safe. Twenty long minutes later, I stumbled into daylight, lungs hacking rock dust, bag groaning metal weight.
[Quest Updated: Personal Milestone]
Recover Dropped Ore — Complete
I laughed, half-crazed. Then Ore Sense flared unbidden—headache spike—and UI glitched:
SIGNAL/Ω/289…DATA ANOMALY DETECTED
Glyphs scrolled gibberish, then UI reset. Perk cool-down tripled to 60 s.
"Later," I growled. "Beer first, glitch later."
At Bristlecone's buying office, Quartermaster Hobson's moustache quivered seeing galena. He weighed lumps, whistled low.
"Purity seventy-ish. Market's thirsty. Seven silver per kilo if you sell whole, ten if I take risk refining and you wait a week."
"Seven, immediate," I said. Risk and wait were luxuries.
He counted 91 silver into my pouch.
[Currency +91 Silver | Total 171 Silver 30 Copper]
Conversion rate 2:1 to Aussie cents: ≈$85. Closer, but Luca demanded thousands. Yet momentum mattered. I exhaled and accepted Hobson's clap on shoulder.
"You bring more, lad, and this hamlet'll carve your face on a coin."
I muttered "Bozhe blagoslovit" and limped to the inn.
Evening found me nursing root beer at a scarred pine table. Rats and collapse still ghosted limbs. But mind raced mapping next steps. The deeper tunnels were lethal, yes, but ore value scaled exponential. With better gear—iron-haft pick, reinforced braces—maybe even a hired guard, the risk-reward tilted.
Anna's text popped on peripheral lens: Mitya got 85% on his English test! He says thanks for flashcards.
I smiled. Family anchor. Reason to crawl back into hell tomorrow.
System ping cut across the moment.
≪Global Notice: Regional Event – "Plague of Claws" Cave Rat populations surge in tunnels 4-8 for 48 hrs | Reward Multipliers Active≫
Perfect. More rats, more pelts, but also more chaos—others might farm them. Loot drop table for rare gems reportedly spiked during plague events. My Ore Sense plus high rat density equaled potential windfall.
"You were asking for smarter grind, Kolya," I murmured. "Be careful what you wish."
I drained mug, left coin. Outside, the Dyson sunset painted inner horizon violet, curving overhead like a cosmic bowl. Somewhere under that impossible sky, fortune waited behind crumbling stone and gnashing teeth. I tugged coat tight, already feeling phantom rock dust on skin.
Tomorrow the depth would beckon again, darker, richer, and hungrier. I intended to feed it my sweat—nothing more.